


Night

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [16]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Dathomir (Star Wars), F/M, Gen, Jedi Culture, Jedi Temple, Mysticism, Nightsisters (Star Wars), Rattataki (Star Wars), Space Pirates, The Force, Time Travel, dark side of the force, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 96,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: In truth, there can be no light without darkness.
Relationships: Shmi Skywalker/Tholme
Series: The Desert Storm [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311746
Comments: 2240
Kudos: 3184
Collections: Star Wars The Clone Wars





	1. Chapter 1

_Scuff-tap scuff-tap scuff-tap scuff-tap scuff-tap scuff-tap_ -

“Taria _, please_.” Obi-Wan complains, trying to focus on the datapad he was studying, and she stops kicking her feet with a sigh.

“Sorry.” She mutters. “I just can’t wait to get _out_ of here.”

They, and two dozen others in their call group, when waiting in a line in the Halls of Healing to have what was _hopefully_ their final blood test done. If they were lucky, they’d be cleared for access outside the Temple.

If they weren’t so lucky, they’d be given another round of injections and told to come back in a ten day.

Taria had only just been on the other side of the threshold at their last test. Chances were, she’d be cleared to return to Corellia, and rejoin the mission roster. Obi-Wan was going to miss her - what they had was fun, and sweet, and comforting - but it wasn’t _more_ than that. They were Jedi, after all. And young ones, at that.

On his own account, Obi-Wan was hopeful, but his test could go either way.

Vaccination had been quicker than treatment, and those who hadn’t had the virus and were vaccinated were cleared to come and go – though most of them hadn’t. Knight Gallia – now _Master_ Gallia – had certainly kept them busy, and those out with the Service Corps were well put to work also. With the shifting tides of the Order, no one was in a hurry to rush back to the slightly tense parade of ‘normal’.

Things were…working out, it seemed.

Nearly five hundred Jedi had perished of the virus, which some enterprising personality on the holonet had catchily taken to calling _Temples Bane_ , so now everyone was calling it _Temples Bane_. Over a thousand more would never fully recover – many suffered permanent blindness, sensory decline, memory loss, or neurological damage. Some, even when cleared of the virus, never stopped suffering seizures.

The Temple on Coruscant had faired well enough, given their resources, but some of the smaller Temples had been utterly devastated. Two of the archivists visiting Coruscant for the Congregation were the only survivors of the Temple of Ledeve.

But instead of tearing the Order apart, this attack had only brought them more fiercely together as a people, more so than they have been in the last thousand years.

“I don’t blame you, what with having to put up with _this_ one.” Healer Chias sympathizes, walking over and tapping Obi-Wan on the head with his datapad.

“ _Essja_.” Obi-Wan swats the datapad away.

“Oh, he has his charms.” Taria grins, leaning over to kiss Obi-Wan on the cheek. “My turn?” She asks, turning back to the Healer and bouncing to her feet.

“Your turn.” The pantoran healer replies with a light smile.

~*~

Shmi wakes softly, which feels _wonderful_ but also incongruous, like it means she’s forgotten something. There is the warm weight of another body curled around her back, and she had Tholme’s hand tucked under her chin, wrapped in her own. She brushes a thumb across his knuckles, and he shifts, the prickle of stubble against her shoulder as he hums in slight confusion, coming out of sleep.

“Not to ask what you are doing here…” He murmurs, putting a little more weight against her side as he leans to kiss the shell of her ear, which makes her twitch, batting his ankle with her foot.

“We overslept.” Shmi replies, enjoying the feel of him, the way his presence soothes, the ability to be so close to another person, and feel _unafraid_. She turns, rolling over to lay on his chest, pressing her cheek to his and smiling when he brings a hand up to thread through her hair.

“We’re allowed, on occasion.” He points out, and Shmi can feel his heartbeat beneath hers, a slow, steady rhythm. He traces his fingertips up her spine, and she shivers.

“To be allowed is not the same as being advisable.” Shmi counters.

He makes a thoughtful sound, half-sighing. “Is that so?”

“I have two six year old boys.” Shmi nods, pulling back and putting weight on her arms so she can look at him. “And you have a teenager.”

The boys had spent the night in the creche, the younglings having been returned to the Temples as soon as they were able, though some of the older initiates had been allowed to stay with the Corps until classes were to resume. Both Shmi and Tholme pause a moment to focus on their senses, and they can tell that Quinlan is not in residence.

“How is he?” Shmi inquires softly.

Tholme’s eyes pinch, and he glances away, expression tightening. “He’s steadier, for training with the Healers, and all his extra meditation, but he’s darker too. He never pulls himself completely out of the Well, anymore. And he’s restless. Too much longer being held back from his role as a Jedi and… I fear he’ll leave.”

There was, after all, only so much training Tholme could accomplish in the confines of the Temple.

“Would you go with him?” Shmi asks, knowing that Tholme loved his padawan every bit as deeply as she loved her sons, and that for all he was older, Quinlan Vos still _needed_ Tholme.

“I don’t know.” He replies, drawing his hand out of her hair to trace her jaw, and the lower edge of her lip. He does not treat her as if she is something fragile and breakable, but he is a very careful man, and something in the softness of her, and the silk of her scars, seems to awe him. Shmi feels _real_ with him, and free, and precious.

She has never been precious, before.

“Then see what can be done about it.” Shmi says simply, moving to cradle his face in her hands, letting her fingertips catch on his hair. “Before such a choice is put before you.”

“What can I do that I haven’t done?” He sighs, with wisps of frustration and weariness. Shmi leans forward, pressing her brow to his.

“Find someone who can do what you cannot.” Shmi suggests. Hs hands go still, as he considers it, and Shmi readies herself to draw away. “Which means we must be getting out of bed.”

~*~

“Balance, little sister.” Komari snickered, and Sian growled, her muscles cramping, her stance wobbling, one foot on a balance board, her other drawn up, and her lightsaber reversed in her hand as she tried to defend herself from a simple pair of training droids.

“I know, I know.” Sian insists. “Balance and economy of motion.”

“You’re wobbling.” Komari sing-songs, watching with a dancing light in her washed-out blue eyes. “ _Relax_. Feel the Force flow through you, in your breath, in your muscles, in your blood. You are more than crude matter, and so is your strength. Own your power.”

Sian breathes in deep, twisting to deflect a bolt to her back only to get another stinging her arm. She can feel sweat gathering on her palms, pooling under the arch of her foot, her thigh cramping, her arms shaking. They’ve been at this for _hours_.

Breathe.

Her skin prickles with heat, and she flinches when the next bolt comes precariously close to her eye.

Breathe.

She wobbles, but steadies, and catches the next one before it lances her side. Her heartbeat slows.

“That’s it.” Komari murmurs.

She leans out of the path, her blade turning, and a crossfire doesn’t touch her.

Her blade flickers, an extension not only of her body, but of her senses, and the callouses on her feet and fingers matter less, as energy snaps together and flies apart under precise control. The balance board shifts, and she glides with the motion, twisting her wrist to earn a whirring, definitive arc, drawing back her arm and rolling her grip to drive behind her and-

“Uh…” Sian can hear Komari step forward, and hadn’t even realized she’d closed her own eyes. “That’s…good job?”

Sian blinks, and then looks down at the remains of the two bisected droids. “Aw _poodoo_.” She sighs, slipping of the balance board and staggering as her muscles turn to mush. “Master Drallig’s not gonna be happy.”

The Battle Master had rules about the proper treatment of equipment. Not murdering your training tools was first on the list.

“They died for a good cause.” The older padawan jokes, nudging one piece with a toe.

“I’m not sure Master Drallig will see it that way.” An older voice drawls.

“Master!” Sian turns, unsteady as a newborn eeopie, to find her master gracing the doorway.

“ _Qui_.” Komaro grins brightly – her smile a bit sharp, just to see the slightly pinched look that overtakes her brother-padawan’s face.

“Impressive, my young padawan.” He remarks, stepping around his sister-padawan and stooping to pick up one of the pieces, hefting it in his hand. “Your dedication is proving it’s reward.”

“Thank you, Master.” Sian beams, pushing stray hair back from her face.

“She’s a natural.” Komari says, stepping back up alongside the taller jedi and nudging him with an elbow. He looks very disconcerted. “I think Master Dooku might even consider her form ‘not appalling’.”

“High praise.” Master Qui-Gon mutters a little sourly.

“Take what you can.” Komari shrugs.

Master Qui-Gon tips his head in acknowledgment, and then offers a short bow to the young woman. “Again, my gratitude for your volunteering to tutor her in the second form.”

“Yes, well,” Komari remarks. “ _someone_ ought to do it.”

Master Qui-Gon draws himself up, and Sian bites back a sigh. “Are we going to lunch, Master?” She asks abruptly, drawing his attention away from wounded pride. Komari rolls her eyes once he’s turned away and flutters her fingers in a wave towards Sian as she departs.

“Ah, actually, there’s-“

“Lunch.” Sian says pointedly, finally remembering to deactivate her saber and clip it to her belt, her hands shaking form fatigue. They’d really pushed her endurance today. “In the Dining Hall. Because it’s _lunch time_.”

He peers down at her, closes his mouth, and sighs through his nose. “Of course, padawan.” He concedes, when she narrows her eyes at him. “ _Lunch_.” He grumbles.

~*~

“And what about this?” Fay inquires, sitting cross-legged on one end of his white couch, sipping rum-laced sapir tea, while Ben lounges across the other. His helmet had been sitting on the table when she arrived, and it had been an easy conversation starter, though the conversation was anything but.

He’d told her of the traditions laid down in Mandalorian armor – some of which she had known, some of which she had not. He’d explained the meaning in the paint and colors, in the symbolism, how what other cultures might call a mask the Mandalorians revered as an expression of the soul.

He’d divulged to her where his colors came from – that low red for perseverance, and that soft orange for commitment, for purpose, for duty, just shaded in between loyalty and passion. About his men, his troops, his _vod_. Not everything, not even a lot, but just a little, just enough to make the memories real.

He told her about the suns, and the sandstorm, and Tatooine, how everything seemed to come back to Tatooine.

All Fay could tell him was that some worlds had power.

But what she asked about now was something new, a mark on his helmet that had not been there before, around the left side of the visor, some symbol he hadn’t painted on but seemed to have instead scarred into the metal, yet it was no symbol she recognized. A claw-like curve and a dash above the visor, and a jag that turned into an inward turned, longer arc beneath, and she had the impression that something cruder had been... stylized.

He glances at the mark, and looks troubled.

“It’s a reminder.” He mutters. Fay sips her tea, watching him, and he stares back into her eyes with a burning gaze, full of mourning and doubt and a demanding, righteous fire.

He has been telling her things, and she has been telling him. Because she knows Mandalore, but she does not know Mandalore as he does. She had known Mandalore when Mandalore was an empire, a conqueror, an ally of the Sith and her enemy.

But as they say – time changes all things.

“Of?” She asks, cradling her cup in her hands, while he draws his helmet into his, and traces the mark, eyes lost in memory.

“Clone Troopers kept their scars, even when, with bacta, they wouldn’t have had to. They’d…” He lets out a breath, his lips quirking a little. “ peel off the patches early, which, as you can likely imagine, drove the healers to fits. But they earned their scars, and their scars made them… individual.”

Fay waits.

“Marshal Commander Cody of the Open Circle Fleet, Two-Hundred-and-Twelfth Legion and the Seventh Sky Corps of the Grand Army of the Republic.” He finally states, voice low and a little hoarse, for all he spoke so carefully, and with such reverent respect. “This one was his.”

He is quiet, for another moment, and Fay lets him be, lets him _feel_ , sensing his emotions like a storm seeping through his skin.

“He was my friend.” He adds quietly. “And I miss him.”

“And so the mark. To remind you of him, to carry him with you?” Fay supposes.

“I always carry them with me.” Ben replies, looking back up with that intense blue-grey gaze. “That’s not what the reminder is for. The reminder is that some things come at too high a cost.”

Fay accepts that, but quietly wonders why he needed to remind himself of that _now_. But he has bared enough of himself today, she thinks, looking at him.

“Some things do.” She agrees sagely, and sighs softly, and takes another warm sip, letting it mull. “Do you know,” She murmurs. “ that I still know exactly the shape of the stone that I buried my lightsaber beneath?”

She knows every divot and rough edge, every spot and stain and calcified barnacle. She dreams of it sometimes, no matter where she is, sometimes she thinks she sees it from the corner of her eye – just that stone. Some days it haunts her, and others – it’s a comfort, almost. Sometimes she doesn’t wonder if it isn’t her lightsaber calling out to her. But if it is - she knows she’ll never answer that call, never follow it home.

Because he is right.

Some things come at too high a cost.

“That weapon saved my life. It saved the lives of my brothers and sisters, of fellow soldiers and helpless bystanders.” Fay tells him, and he looks at her like he _knows_. She believes, young as he is, this uprooted scion of her lineage, that perhaps he does. “But not enough. And it took so many.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Obi- _Wan_.” Anakin persists, jumping up and down a little.

“I’m _studying_.” Obi-Wan says sharply, shoulders tense with the constant interruptions.

“But you’re taking so _long_.” Anakin whines, practically throwing himself on the table and knocking Obi-Wan’s datapads and notes askew.

“Well, we don’t all get to be _geniuses_ , Anakin!” Obi-Wan snaps, bitter with the fact that the six-year old, by all accounts, sailed through his courses, placing well ahead of his age-mates, and he did it so _easily_. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan has been nominated for the exceptional honor of an early promotion to Senior Padawan, provided he do this one thing, and – and - he can already see himself telling the Council he failed, and them taking it back. Frustration boils over as he moves the younger boy back off the table and retrieves his materials in harsh, jerky motions.

Quiet.

Obi-Wan stares at the disorderly pile in front of him and closes his eyes, sighing in defeat and self-recrimination. He looks over, to see Anakin looking up at him wide eyed, biting his lip, Jax with his arms wrapped around himself, hunched and looking down at the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Anakin mumbles.

“No, I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan says, feeling it. He runs his hands through his hair and tugs, feeling stress and regret keenly.

“But I upset you.” Anakin points out, watery eyed. “I can _feel_ it.”

Obi-Wan hunches, and draws his shield up, taking a deep breath to try and expel some of the emotional backlash he was shedding into the Force.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I’m just…It’s not as easy for me as it is for you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan tries to explain, turning to the side so he can face Anakin and Jax, who crowd into his space at the slightest invitation. “I know this, I know it,” Obi-Wan says in frustration, flicking the flimsi full of notes, and the reading material on the datapads. “ but when it comes to the examinations…I just can’t put it together how they want it to be. We’re all writing in arubesh, but sometimes it’s like we’re not speaking the same language.”

He wishes his master were in charge of his comprehension exams. Master Ben seemed to just _understand_ what he meant, when Obi-Wan couldn’t make what he thought into the same thing as what his instructors were reading off the plast.

“But…” Anakin’s nose scrunches up. “ it’s not about what they want. It’s about what you learned.”

“Well, I don’t learn the way they wish I did.” Obi-Wan says, having had countless critiques reminding him to stay on topic, or that while he followed the subject matter, he failed to adhere to the relevant thesis, or that what he turned in was not what they asked for. He’d heard one of his professors once remark that while his enthusiasm for a certain line of philosophy was admirable, his presentation was often…inadequate in regards to the measures used to gauge his actual subject comprehension.

More unfortunately – Obi-Wan wasn’t the only Initiate to have heard that remark, and he’d earned the dreadful nickname ‘Oafy-Wan’ for it.

“Then they’re stupid.” Anakin says decisively, Jax nodding in perfect agreement. “Because you’re wizard.”

Obi-Wan finds himself relaxing a little, smiling. “Thanks.”

The boys grin, and Obi-Wan lets them drag him away from his studies. Obviously, they all deserve ice cream.

~*~

Fay watches in consternation as the small shuttle touches down in the landing bay, and part of the heat shielding immediately sloughs off the side with a loud clatter. “Oh dear.” She remarks.

“Quite.” Qui-Gon agrees, as the door to the shuttle grinds and whines and screeches as it’s forced open, and a young woman jumps down, the stair-assist no having extended – if indeed it remained on the vessel at all.

Knight-Elect Depa Billaba strides out, her hair tied in a knot at the back of her head, two new piercings on her brow and the bridge of her nose, and a new keen edge of wisdom to her eyes, and her presence in the Force. She’s lost some of the softness of youth from her face, but her build is stockier than Qui-Gon remembers, and under a spacers jacket, he can tell her tunics have been mended many times and - he could swear some of those neat rows of stitches looked like the repair of claw marks. Mace is not yet arrived on Coruscant, so Qui-Gon frets in his place.

“How was your journey about the galaxy, young one?” Fay inquires, striding forward to meet the young chalactin woman with delight. Depa’s brown face brightens with a smile as she greets the older Jedi with a prim bow.

She stands tall when she answers, looking between the pair of them. “Enlightening.” She replies.

Qui-Gon sighs a little, sure Mace was in for an ordeal when she submitted her final report, and Fay laughs, the sound tickling the air. “I’m sure.” She responds.

“Many things have changed in your absence.” Qui-Gon offers.

Depa looks to him, and she has grown more than he realized, as he looks at her face – or perhaps he merely had the memory of her fixed at thirteen, always tripping up her new master at every turn, with solemn eyes and a mischievous smile.

“So have I.” She answers, with the ease of one who has learned much of themselves. “But home remains.”

Qui-Gon smiles, and sweeps out an arm to invite her into the Temple. “That it does. Come, let’s get you reacquainted.”

Something else snaps off the ship, and a maintenance droid wails. The three of them pretend they don’t notice.

~*~

“Am I….interupting?” Tholme inquires, brows furrowed as he lurks in the doorway of the classroom.

Master Naasade looks up good humoredly, and shakes his head. “Not at all, we were just finishing up.

His class of initiates whines dejectedly, and the cinnoman haired man chuckles. Tholme waits paitnety while he answers a last few questions, and the Initiates tidy up and clear the room, racing each other to the nearest dining hall. Tholme lifts an incredulous gaze towards the Mandalorian.

“That was an…interesting lesson for that age-group.”

Naasade coughs, slightly embarrassed. “Yes, well, I may have promised one young pupil that they could learn Force Structuring when they where ten….and others interpreted that to mean that as they were _already_ ten, I owed them a few lessons.”

“You could have told them no.” Tholme points out, arms crossed.

“But why would I?” Naasade quirks a brow, a glint in his eye.

Tholme sighs. “Their crechemasters aren’t going to thank you. Between you and Shmi…” Tholme shakes his head, and Naasade’s amused smile is a little _too_ knowing.

“They never do.” Naasade points out. “But so long as the young ones are prospering…let them prosper. Let them learn. The skills may save their lives one day.”

Tholme couldn’t argue with that.

“So what can I do for you, Master Tholme?” Naasade inquires, grey-blue eyes pinching a little. It hardly takes a seer to guess why Tholme might be seeking him out.

Tholme gathers is thoughts, taking a breath, and Naasade is patient, and still, content to wait him out. Tholme appreciates that about the other man, for all that their relationship was a connection held through others, rather than one in its’ own right. He and Naasade simply understood each other well, and there was something about the younger man... or perhaps in the Force around him, that whispered to Tholme to trust him.

It's why he'd asked no questions when sent to search for a little girl halfway across the galaxy, and it was proven right when he actually found her.

“I am reaching the end of my ability to provide any help at all to my padawan, and I don’t know what to do.” Tholme confesses without shame, once he believes he can make himself well understood. “I don’t think he’s fighting it any more, and I know he’s losing patience with the expectation that he ought to. I worry he’s giving up.”

Naasade’s brows draw low as he nods, and considers this. He invites Tholme into the room with a gesture, and they both take a cushion and sit, Naasade crosslegged, Tholme with leg drawn up to rest an arm on, his other leg – the artificial one – stretched out before him.

“I suppose,” Naasade says thoughtfully, “ that depends entirely on your point of view. Please don’t lose patience with me.” He tacks on, as if expecting a rebuke, though Tholme has none to offer. A little – pleasantly – surprised, Naasade nods to himself and continues. “I do not believe, that as you might fear, Quinlan is in any way _embracing_ the Dark Side. But on a certain level, he is never going to be able to escape it. He can continue to constantly strive to deny it within himself – and he’s been very successful in that – but it’s tiring, Tholme, to be so constantly at war within yourself. And growing tired of that fight is dangerous, when Darkness is so tempting, when it promises power and _relief_. When it will convince you that it will give you peace.”

“I though Dark Siders believed peace is a lie.” Tholme says.

“That is…a certain brand of Sith philosophy, yes. But what is Darkness and what makes a Sith are not inherently the same.” Naasade explains. “Quinlan is _not_ a Sith.”

“I know that.” Tholme insists, but fear persists. The younger jedi just nods.

“Obi-Wan tells me that Quinlan is attempting to…. _manage_ his connection to the Dark Side, instead of denying it completely.”

“Can that even be done? Without falling further?”

Naasade hums, stroking his beard. “Yes, though the understanding of it is…beyond me. But in regards to that…” He trails off, looking at Tholme with that gaze of his that seems to judge the world and roll the dice on fate. “ There is a journey I have intended to take for some time, and a mission whose window of opportunity is closing more and more every day. I’ve been waiting for my padawan to be… less vulnerable, and I believe we are at a point now where….well. It’s time, regardless. Once the council returns and my padawan passes his exams, I’m petitioning to take personal assignment. It occurs to me quite belatedly that this would be an ideal assignment on which to take Quinlan. If you are ready to return to the field.” Naasade proposes.

Tholme considers it carefully. “What sort of assignment?”

Naasade offers him one of those self-indulgent, sharp edged grins that serve as their own warning, of sorts. “How much do you know, Master Tholme, of the Nightsisters of Dathomir?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Master Dooku!” Master Adi Gallia calls out, a little surprised to see the other jedi – and his padawan – in the Senate District. She’d returned to Coruscant just that morning and gone directly to the Jedi Oversight Committee to re-engage herself with them in person, and to make herself visible to the representatives and ambassadors of the Senate, many of whom had already taken the chance to have their office request a few minutes of her time.

Master Dooku turns and waits politely, cutting a severe visage even at his most mild-mannered, off-set by his slightly unkempt and remarkably tired looking – if keen-eyed – padawan. Adi had her reserves about Komari Vosa’s health and state of mind, but the younger woman seemed to have no trouble keeping up with her master, and she was, in so far as Adi was aware, passing the Healer’s evaluations at the Temple. “I did not expect to see you here.” Adi remarks, when she is within a reasonable range, nodding politely to a few aides as they step out of her way.

“Do you ever expect to see anyone?” Padawan Vosa inquires, not snidely, though she looks a little sullen. “The atmosphere here is dreadful.”

Adi cuts a glance between Master Dooku and his padawan, brow slightly furrowed. “There are techniques to dealing with… the atmosphere.” She says carefully, aware of their locale. “I’d be happy to advise you of them at the Temple.”

The padawan nods, shoulders hunched in, her washed-out blue gaze scanning their surroundings with a critical, almost wary sharpness that – judging by the subtle uncomfortable shifts – makes those around her a little uneasy to meet. She’s remarkably intense for a young woman who seems to want nothing more than to burrow deeper into her own skin.

Adi lets her be and looks back to the young womans master, who frowns over the blonde before noticing Adi’s attention.

“I was only reacquainting myself with old associates and fellow scholars.”

“You could call them friends.” Adi says, a little wryly, at the man’s stiff demeanor.

“He really couldn’t.” Vosa mutters, rolling her eyes. “We spent half the morning with the Senator from Naboo and I had to listen to them bemoan the loss of a three thousand year old winery on Chandrila and then nitpick the effectiveness of reforms for Judiciary recruitment standards. If it weren’t for the crusty old Munn from the Banking Guilds arriving to interrupt, I may have lost my mind.”

“You have yet to grasp the greater intricacies of political networking, my padawan.”

“Political networking is just a fancy term for schmoozing with malicious intent.”

“I don’t think your master would be considered _malicious_ , Padawan Vosa.” Adi points out, watching the two bicker with some amusement as Master Dooku actually _huffs_. “Politics aren’t _evil_.”

The padawan looks disgruntled. “It certainly feels evil.” She mutters, like a sulky twelve year old and not a woman of twenty.

Master Dooku sighs disagreeably and gestures to his padawan that they are _leaving_. _Now_.

“Master Gallia.” Dooku parts curtly.

Adi watches them go in bemusement.

~*~

“This is _not_ how I left this chamber, Ben.” Mace remarks dryly, striding into the Council Chamber, fresh off his transport and a joyous, if brief, reunion with his padawan.

“Why am I getting the blame?” Master Naasade looks up from the datapad he’d been frowning over, offering Mace a disgruntled look yet doing nothing to mask the pleasure and relief he feels at seeing the Harun Kal. “The plants were _Qui_ - _Gon’s_ idea.” He passes the blame, and Qui-Gon shoots him a dirty look, breaking off his conversation with a still rather frail looking Madame Nu.

 _Qui-Gon now, is it_? Mace thinks, glancing between the two, quietly glad that they seemed to be more comfortable in each other’s presence than when he saw them last in person.

As to the matter in contention – the entire Council Chamber, outside the circle of chairs, was now lined with a veritable garden of little handmade pots and hangers, filled to bursting with flowers and succulents and small bonsai trees. To be honest, Mace had noticed several locations in the Temple now populated with fresh pottery and growing things.

“I beg your pardon?” Qui-Gon narrows his eyes. “I distinctly recall being _volunteered_ to coach classes in the Living Force-“

“You agreed they had to be entertained, so don’t pretend I _forced_ you to -“

“ - and I was not the one who had them all learning pottery, and what else were we supposed to do with so many-“

“ – don’t pretend those seeds just _happened_ to be in Temple, I have no idea where or how you procured –“

“ – with the Room of a Thousand Fountains closed potted gardening seem like a good alternative and that was most certainly _your_ \- “

Macre regrets opening the subject.

 _Thwack_!

 _Swhap_!

“Master Yoda!” Qui-Gon yelps.

“Master _Yaddle_.” Ben snaps, looking truly affronted as the small green Master gives him a narrow-eyed look, Yoda doing the same to Qui-Gon, before the both amble towards their seats.

“Good, it is, to be surrounded by living things.” Master Yoda remarks.

“Good, it is, to teach and learn new skills, hm?” Master Yaddle adds. “Argue, you should not.” She turns her gaze on Mace, who quails a little inside. “Complain, you should not. Well, you all have done, in these trying times.”

“Thank you, Master.” The men murmur, like chastened younglings.

Ben looks up, rubbing his beard before propping a hand on his fist, as Mace takes his seat. “Though I must say, I’ll be glad to be free of this chamber with the Council returned.”

Master Yoda grumbles, shifting, and then peers at the two less than model Jedi. “Returned, not all of this Council has, hm?” He remarks, and Mace watches almost gleefully as a sort of dread creeps up in his friends eyes at the implications of that remark.

“And staying, not all of us are.” Madame Nu says quietly, drawing their attention, and their concern. She folds her hands over her lap, her back straight, ever proper, ever collected, but there is no doubting that her illness had taken its toll. “Masters, Councilors, I have been considering for some time withdrawing from my seat in this august body. Frankly, my duties here and as head archivist have been a bit much over these pas few years, and with a padawan now… and my health as it is, I believe I must admit it is time.”

None of them are shocked by the revelation – Madame Nu has been less and less an active member of the Council, and they were prepared for eventual resignation, but all are saddened.

“Resigned, also, has Master Tiin.” Yoda informs them. “Two seats, there are, to be filled.”

“And there is no one here who could deny you did not rise admirably to the tsk, Master Jinn, Master Naasade.” Mace comments.

Qui-Gon looks gobsmacked, Ben just looks slightly trapped.

“Believe me when I say I am honored by the consideration, Masters,” Naasade opens carefully, seeming wary of them, all of a sudden, and Mace scowls at the man for his sudden reluctance, when it was clear to all of them that he was a _natural_ leader, and that his insight and wisdom has been invaluable. To say nothing of the fact that Mace knew he has held a seat before. “ but if such openings are to be filled, would like to nominate other in my place.”

“Hear your proposals, we will.” Yaddle nods agreeably, and the rest of the council follows suit.

“With the most emphasis, I would suggest Master Adi Gallia be offered a place on this Council, as her service and intellect have proven beneficial if not _critical_ to this Order.” Naasade says, and no member present can disagree with his argument, many nodding along with the consideration.

“To the second, I would nominate Master Shaak Ti, whose dedication and adaptability have put her on the forefront of much of the changes within the Order, and whose judgement I find to be almost unquestionable.”

“Fair and firm, is Master Ti.” Master Yaddle agrees. “Lean on her guidance, I do. Lean on her guidance, this Council could. One of the greatest teaching master’s of the Jedi, she is.”

Ben smiles, absently rubbing his shin where the diminutive old woman had smacked him with her walking stick just minutes ago.

“I would also like to put forward consideration for Master Yan Dooku. I do not find his history and judgement to be so unquestionable, but I do believe that his perspective and experience could provide this council with a much needed counterpoint. To all of us be always in agreement is not necessarily a sign of wisdom, nor of harmony, nor of good, sound judgement, Masters.”

His last candidate, unsurprisingly, troubles some of them.

“I am not certain Master Dooku would accept such a post.” Master Sifo-Dyas says quietly, as the mans friend. “He has shown great dissatisfaction with this Council in the past.”

“In the past.” Ben nods.

“Consider his nomination, we will.” Master Yoda nods. “But complicated, is the will and willingness of my former padawan. Consider your reasoning for his appointment also, we should. Counterpoints, you believe, this Council needs? Unbalanced, you find it?”

“Not _unbalanced_ , Master Yoda. A thing that does not move need not have balance, no? Many things have changed in the last year, Masters, but even still, I could not see those changes having occurred if you had not been all but forced to enact them. Recent experience will have changed us all, I hope, but… a year ago, I would have said this body was fixed. Stagnant, even, and unchallenged.”

“Hmm.” The elder hums, ears drooping. “Yes.” He says simply, sighing out the word in a way that aches. “See this, I do. A counterpoint, would Master Dooku provide? Perhaps, perhaps not. But a counterpoint, his padawan would be also, hm?”

Yoda looks to Qui-Gon, who shirks back at the regard in denial. “Nominate Master Qui-Gon Jinn, I would. Any other nominations, are there?”

“I nominate Master Ben Naasade.” Mace says, earning a blue-grey glower that just tickles him. “And furthermore, Master, I would like to propose the expansion of this Council to include the Chairpersons of each of the Service Corps. Our recent if rather abrupt integration has taught me much, and I believe there is still more to learn.”

“Agree with Master Windu, I do.” Master Rancisis says, in his soft, hissing voice. “We have debated much the role of the Service Corps among the Jedi, the meaning of what it is to be a Jedi, of who is and who may be and how one becomes.” Green fingers thread through silver hair, and his coils shift beneath him. “We cannot debate forever. It is time, I believe, for us to reach a decision on that matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Feel free to cast a vote!


	4. Chapter 4

“They’ve been in there for _fourteen_ hours.” Knight-Elect Depa Billaba frowns, crossing her arms as she regards the doors to the Council Chamber. “It is half-past the night bell, and I haven’t seen my master since I greeted him off his transport. Speaking of which-“ She looks over the collection of Council – and Temporary Council – Padawans playing sabacc on the floor in the corridor, picnic baskets and thermos’s of tea scattered around them. “ -aren’t you all out past cufew?”

“We’ve been here since dinner.” Obi-Wan replies, as they’d agreed they should probably deliver dinner to their masters, and the other Councilors, who did not appear to have stopped to eat today. “My master keeps insisting they’re almost finished, but he’s been sounding less and less certain by the hour. If he doesn’t come out in the next half hour, I have Healer’s permission to forcibly escort him to his bed.”

“What are they doing?” the Knight-Elect inquires.

“Well, the Council started making _decisions_ , so they called the Congregation into the meeting-“ Siri starts, sounding far more snarky than usual, but that was probably because she was losing at cards.

“- and half of them are back home or on their way back home, so there were delays in establishing communication- “ Sian cuts in, grinning like a devil as she lays down her hand and Siri absolutely fumes.

“ – and what started as a simple proposal-“ Obi-Wan picks up the explanation, as Sian trails off to celebrate her victory by raking in the pile of tea sachets and hard candies and flimsy slips of favors that they were betting with.

“- appears to evolved into actual progress on restructuring the Order as we know it to ensure our survival and prosperity.” Tsui finishes primly, slapping his cards down and stealing Sian’s victory out from under her. The devaronian girls mouth drops open in shock and Siri peals into giggles. Iara, Master Yoda’s older padawan, flicks her cards ruefully, and Tsui offers her a third of his winnings.

“Hey!” Siri protests.

Tsui shrugs, unaffected. “Padawan Iara’s our least experienced player.” He says simply. Siri grumbles, but nods, because it was an unofficial tradition to give the new players some part of the winnings, so they’d have something to bet with the next time they played. It kept them coming back, instead of getting disheartened and stopping. Some part – usually not _that_ much – and usually not the favor slips too.

Iara just beams sweetly, brimming gratitude and good cheer in the Force, and Siri’s irritation bleeds off into a slightly reluctant smile, because Iara was just simply…likeable.

“I thought…” Knight-Elect Billaba hesitates, confused. “I thought the Congregation had an open door policy?” She hasn’t been in Temple for the entire affair, but she’d been kept apprised.

“They didn’t really intend to shut anyone out?” Obi-Wan points out slowly, head half turned away in distraction. “They didn’t really intend to push forward any big decisions today, but, well, it came up.” He shrugs.

“The first day the Council reconvenes after a crisis?” Billaba points out. “They couldn’t have let people settle in?” She knows she might- perhaps – be whining a bit. But it’s been a year since she’s had a real conversation with her master that wasn’t brief holocalls and official reports. She’s missed him, and there is so much to catch up on, and aside from an all too short moment when he first landed, he’s been held up by the Council, and the waiting is just an itch under her skin.

“Objects in motion.” Sian points out. “ Tend to stay in motion. I think – it’s better to do it now. Before we settle back into the way things were.” The devaronian girl shrugs, iridescent eyes shining. “Sometimes, there can be no going back.”

The knight-elect pauses, taking that in, and nods in acknowledgement of that wisdom. “Well said.” She murmurs.

The devaronian girl grins. “It doesn’t help much, does it?”

Depa Billaba sighs, tapping her foot. “No, not really.”

~*~

“Councilors, Chairmen, if you can truly provide a persuasive argument as to what else we can accomplish tonight, by all means, present to the floor, otherwise, I would suggest, once more, that we close this session.” Ben half-pleads, long exhausted of the nitpicking of details which were, in his opinion, frivolous at this point – something he was sure Master Gallia also believed, as she had been far less diligent in her notetaking for the last two hours. “Otherwise my padawan is going to march in on us in exactly five minutes and forcibly recuse me, and I believe his friends have exactly the same intention towards their masters.”

Ben scans the room, and eyes flash across eyes, and he tries not to feel unsettled by the very intent focus he receives from the Kalleran Master from Corellia, as they all assess each other, and gather themselves to accept what they have just done today.

A Councilor from the Temples of Vormijj lets out an exhausted, slightly hysterical titter of a laugh, shaking his mane in incredulity. Master Windu lifts a concerned brow in their direction.

“History will look back on today and find that one of the most important sessions in the history of the Jedi Order was closed in fear of the ire of very diligent padawans.”

That sets off a collective spate of nervous-relieved chuckles and laughs, Masters shaking their heads and shoulders relaxing on all sides.

“Masters, shall I publish immediately, or give you time to prepare your Temples?” Master Gallia, invited on merit and acting as their official notary in drafting the documents which would set forth their decisions and thus the future of the Order, inquires politely.

“You’ve finished the commission already?” Chairman Qo Sarai, the head of the Medical Corps, inquires with lifted brows, duly impressed. Master Gallia smiles curtly at the zeltron.

“I finished it an hour ago. An commission should not be too precise in its execution, else it will stifle its own growth. We’re setting new foundations – I’ve outlined the core functions and protocols of our intentions – but I’ve made sure we left ourselves room to build upon them as necessary. I do, of course, need each of you to review the documents and add your signature before the Order publishes them.”

“I would suggest.” Chairman Maric of the EduCorps proposes. “That we all _sleep_ before conducting such a review.”

“I second that.” Qui-Gon nods, earning a narrow side-eye from Master Windu that doesn’t phase him in the slightest.

A quick agreement goes around, and Master Yoda nods.

“Decided, it is. Close the day, we shall. Tomorrow – new, it will be. For all of us.”

Chairman Merk Concazzi, of the ExploraCorps, slumps in his seat and buries his face in one hand. “There’s going to be so much paperwork.” The corellian mutters miserably.

The weequay master on his other side offers him a very toothy grin. “Cheer up, _Knight_ Concazzi.

~*~

“This hasn’t made you even a little bit happy?” Cladu inquires, holding his new IdentPass in hand, joining his fellow returned Initiates for lunch. The entire morning had been hectic with activity and emotion, following the pronouncement of the High Council, and the new directive set down for the Jedi Order.

“It feels cheap.” Ral Sei’lar growls, glaring down at his own IdentPass.

Cladu sighs, and sits down next to Iara, and brushes his fingers over the new seal declaring him a Knight of the Jedi Order; Educational Corps.

The title didn’t make him a warrior-diplomat of Old, it didn’t make him a representative of the Galactic Republic, but it made him – no, it didn’t _make_ him – it _acknowledged_ him as a member of the Jedi Order, who attained such status through education and service.

Knighthood was no longer an exclusive sect within the Order, and the Service Corps were no longer addendums to the Temples, but an integral component.

Cladu could barely believe it, when Madame Nu was explaining the new changes with patent discipline.

There were, now, _seven_ divisions of service within the Order. The originals remained: The Agricultural Corps and the Explorer Corps were largely unchanged, The Educational Corps had absorbed and been absorbed by Temple Archivists and the Council of First Knowledge, the Medical Corps, likewise, had unified with the Circle of Healers of the temple-trained doctors.

Additionally, three new Corps had been established:

The Diplomatic Corps, represented in the Council by its newly elected Chairman - Master Rancisis - which focused on mediation, negotiation, matters of governance and diplomacy, and political endeavors.

The Judiciary Corps, represented in the Council by its newly elected Chairman - Master Sinube - which focused on the realm of investigations, protection details, matters of legality, justice, and enforcement.

And the Heritage Corps, to be represented in the Council by Master Fay, which focused on the study of the Force, Jedi history, philosophy, prophecy, and the preservation of the Jedi Order.

Additional changes to the Council had been made, Madame Nu had informed him, as she had informed him of her intent to retire. In addition to a seat on the High Council being given to the Director of each Service Corps, Master Shaak Ti had been elected to fill Madame Nu’s seat, and Master Dooku the seat of Master Tiin. Two more seats had also been established: One for a Jedi Knight, and one for a Padawan Learner, to represent up-and-coming Jedi in the discussions of the High Council, though those positions were not yet filled.

Cladu had hesitantly questioned if twenty-one seats did not seem like a drastic increase, but Madame Nu had succinctly informed him that a council of twenty-one was hardly going to be the egregious body of the Senate of Ten-Thousand Systems.

His master had, however, amusedly remarked that they were going to have to renovate – there was no way to fit nearly a dozen more chairs in that room.

Under the new directive, it was deemed that Knighthood would be attained by those who had the education and experience to operate independently as subject matter experts within the scope of their Service, and that Mastery would be attained by those who attained the self-discipline, enlightenment, grasp and connection with the Force to have earned such recognition.

This made Knighthood more attainable, especially in current times, wherein the existing members of the Corps were far behind their study of the Force than their traditional Padawan peers, but it made Mastery more difficult to reach, as it negated bestowing the possession of the title to those whose greatest accomplishment was not self-mastery, but the training of another to Knighthood.

According to archival records, there had once been a time when Jedi were not permitted to take a student _until_ they had achieved mastery by a similar standard, which to Cladu seemed a rather valid approach, if unsuited to their current standing as an Order as a whole.

Furthermore, only those who attained knighthood qualification in the Educational, Diplomatic, and Judiciary Corps qualified for the seal which made them Representatives of the Galactic Republic, and those where the three Corps most current Knights and Masters were sorted into.

But the exciting thing, to Cladu, was the _choice_ the new system was going to offer. You could attain knighthood in _any_ of the Corps – _and_ , if you so wished, in _all_ of them.

Current traditional padawans, he understood, where listed under two to four of the Service Corps, all of them under Heritage and Diplomatic Corps, but some under Judiciary and Educational Corps as well, based on their studies and experience.

A padawan required a master to train them in the ways of the Jedi, and the Force, and good common sense, but once a Learner achieved Knighthood, they did not need a master to train them _again_ if they chose to pursue certification through another Corps – though there was still some debate as to how this would affect certification as a Representative of the Galactic Repbulic, if one was not raised into that role by an equally certified master.

Sweeping changes were being made to the rules of Padawan Learner training, and apprenticeships, and Cladu did not doubt that there would be many, many stumbling blocks over the next few years, but…

For a Temple that felt so very, very confused, there was also a great deal of optimism and hope in the air today.

“Cheap?” Iara frowns, an act which never seemed to sit well on the usually cheery zabraks face.

“They gave it to us for nothing, because they need more Knights.” Ral argues. “It doesn’t mean anything. What about Knights Trials?”

“You’ve served the Order for more than a decade. Does that not mean anything?” Iara challenges him. “Maybe it wasn’t done with a saber or over some senators fancy table, but you’ve done good work in the name of the Jedi. We all have. And as for Trials…” She sets her jaw. “ I feel there are plenty ahead for all of us – and if not, I’m sure the Council would be perfectly happy to let you walk into the Chamber of Trial to prove yourself.”

“But how am I supposed to learn the things a Padawan is taught by a Master if I’m already a Knight?”

“You only need to be raised by a master once.” Cladu explains, because, well, it was tricky, and the document was _long_. It wouldn’t surprise him if Ral had gotten too frustrated to make sense of the whole thing. “But _when_ you get a master isn’t fixed. You’re an ExploraCorps Knight, and I think the recommendation is that you choose HeriCorps as a second study, given the circumstances, and there’s a register for students looking for a master you can add yourself to – if you haven’t been placed on it already. The Initiates Council has been working since dawn to try and get ahead of this.”

So were, he knew, the Council of First Knowledge and the EduCorps Board of Qualifications, hashing out course and training requirements, educational programs and instructor availability, and who needed what to qualify where.

Several heads turned in his direction at that explanation, relief dawning, and Cladu resists the urge to duck his head. He was an Archivists Padawan and an EduCorps graduate – information _was_ his speciality.

“But how do you explain that? Hi, I’m a Jedi Knight but not a real one, that’s my Master over there?”

Cladu squirms a little. “It’s been less than a day. There are obviously still things to work out.”

“We could wear the braid on the other side.” Iara suggests.

“What?” Cladu turns to her.

“Well, I’m a Knight, but I’m still a Jedi Learner. Farming, I can do, and I can teach, but I’m still a Padawan in the ways of the Force and Jedi Discipline. So… what if we wear our Learner braids on the opposite side? I also heard a conversation in the corridor regarding new beads to identify the various Corps…”

Cladu smiles. “There will be all kinds of new little traditions, I guess.” Cladu says. “We should talk to our master’s about that – it’s a good idea.”

Ral snorts, shoulders hunching. “Good for you.” He mutters.

Cladu and Iara share a look, and sigh. There was no pleasing some people, even if they felt a little sorry for the bothan, whose path forward was still far less certain than theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Oh stars, I have... made a mess. I'm super nervous about this chapter and everything I just tried to do. 
> 
> .....Thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

“Masters?” Obi-Wan ducks his head into the open-doored Council Chamber, which, as he understands, has been a hive of activity and interruptions all day, and knows it must certainly mean something when half of them wince in resignment to see him, and the other half perk up.

“Well, Padawan Kenobi, you made it all the way past dinner time.” Master Fay remarks amusedly. “I’m impressed.”

“I... what?” Obi-Wan replies, confused as he takes that as permission to step inside, gesturing behind him to Padawan’s Iara and Cladu, Advanced Initiate/ Knight Dinn, and a slightly irate ‘Knight’ Kuzomos to follow him.

Several Master’s blink as his companions appear, and glance at each other.

“A matter for our attention, you have brought?” Master Yaddle inquires, shooting Yoda’s grandmaster a quelling look. Obi-Wan focuses on her, and Master’s Windu, Gallia, and Chairman Maric of the EduCorps with her. Other small groups of Councilors dot the room, most of which is standing room only. It's a bit crowded.

“Yes, Masters.” He bows politely. “There has been…discussion, among the Traditional Corps members and the Advanced Initiates and… a lot of confusion.”

“Confusion was to be expected.” Master Fisto points out, nodding.

Knight Kuzomos – formerly and much preferably Engineer Kuzomos of the ExploraCorps – huffs at that, but blanches and drops their gaze nervously when the Councilor looks to him.

“They… it has been proposed that perhaps there would be a…simpler way to delineate members of the Jedi Order without….” Obi-Wan glances to his companions, takes a breath, and tries again. “They don’t want to offend, but a great many of them are very unhappy to suddenly be titled Jedi Knights.”

There is a noticeable pause in the activity of the room, and Obi-Wan doesn’t waver, though Padawan’s Cladu and Iara both cringe.

“What?” Chairman Concazzi blurts out, the corellian looking… put out.

“It’s a great honor, Masters, Chairmen.” Iara steps forward bravely, for all that her voice wobbles with nerves. “But… for some of us, it feels undeserved, and for most of us… it doesn’t make a lot of sense, to be both a Padawan and a Knight. A group of us reached out to our previous Corps… our friends, to see how the new changes were being accepted and… many of them agree, no matter how badly they want to attain Knighthood, that they don’t feel at all prepared for the title, no matter the change in requirements. Next to the traditional Knights, it feels....” She sighs, and shakes her head.

Chairman Maric looks a little ill, the white-haired, purple skinned sephi man muttering about ‘administrative nightmare’ but he nods in understanding too.

Master Gallia arches a brow. “Then I presume, as you all have involved Padawan Kenobi in this-“

Obi-Wan honestly feels like that’s some kind of accusation he doesn’t deserve.

“ – that a proposal for a solution is forthcoming?”

Obi-Wan nods, though it feels like confessing to something he didn’t do. He’s only here because they wanted his moral support in speaking to the Council. That’s it. This isn’t _his_ fault.

“There…um…” Padawan Cladu steps forward “Well, there’s this… old term for skilled tradesman that’s rather fallen out of common use but…. It would apply? And it would convey, that… that as skilled members of a Service Corps, we have achieved something worth noting, just… we’re not Knights, not yet. We feel that it’s a title we can’t claim without the expected understanding of the Force, and Jedi Discipline that is meant to accompany it.” The natolaun has one had in a pocket, and Obi-Wan feels sorry about the fact that he’s probably got it clenched around his new IdentPass, which declares him a Knight. He’d been so _happy_ about it.

“Feedback from the Corps, you have received?” Master Yoda inquires, hobbling over towards their discussion, leaving a slightly scolded looking Master Koth in his wake.

“We meant no offense, Masters!” Iara goes wide-eyed. “It’s just… the decision was made quite suddenly, and… without greator input.”

“Hmm. Got ahead of ourselves, this Council and Congregation did. Too far ahead, perhaps.” Yoda nods kindly, reaching up to brush the back of her hand with a blunt claw in reassurance. “Offense, there is not, in offering guidance, when a better solution, there is. Good, it is.”

“Thank you, Master.” The zabrak woman smiles.

“Is someone actually going to tell me what title they’re proposing?” Master Windu cuts in, equal parts baffled and tired. Obi-Wan blinks and it seems like Knight-Elect Billaba (whose promotion has not yet had time to take place, unfortunately) simply materializes at his elbow with a cup of tea. To be fair, Obi-Wan isn’t the only one surprised, as the young woman’s Master startles, nearly knocking the cup out of her hand.

“The Corpsmen took sort of… a poll?” Obi-Wan glances at Kuzomos, who nods, offering up his datapad. The Engineer, through virtue of his career, was actually exceedingly well connected across the Jedi Order, both in Temples and in the Corps, and it was his involvement that had actually gotten their attempts at large-scale communication off the ground. He may be shy in front of the Council, but outside, the kiffar was very much a people person. “And the greatest amount of favor goes towards calling qualified Service members ‘Journeymen’, and non-qualified Service Members – er… students who aren’t yet Padawans? – ‘Disciples’. So individuals like Iara would be Journeymen Padawans, instead of Padawan-Knights. And Initiates who are ready to enter advanced training but don’t yet have a Master can still continue their education and advance their skillsets as Disciples, working towards Journeyman status while still seeking Knighthood. Or…” Obi-Wan glances at Engineer Kuzomos, who was happy to be a Service Corps member, who did not want to be a Knight, and who had been furious because he was married, and he had three children, and he had no idea what was going to happen if he was suddenly being drafted back into the rigid confines of the Jedi Code.

There had been… a lot of people in his situation, and Obi-Wan had spent an hour on a discussion server, trying to offer answers and calm fears. The Council would _not_ be forcing people to choose their family or the Order. If Shmi Skywalker could be a Padawan and a mother, so could be anyone else, and, well, if that _wasn’t_ the case – Obi-Wan and his friends would do everything in their power to ensure it would be. Maybe some couldn't offer their lives to the galaxy and risk leaving their family behind, and maybe that would be a barrier to Knighthood, but...they could figure this out. He was absolutely certain that Master Ben and Master Shaak Ti would support them fully.

“Or… not. Those who do not wish to become Knights could still serve the Order and participate in our faith.” Obi-Wan swallows, all eyes on him and far less favorably now. “Knighthood requires a lot of sacrifice. More than some people can give.” He says carefully. “That doesn’t make them wrong, that doesn’t mean that what they can give has any less value. We’re giving more of our people the chance to attain Knighthood.” He says. “But we should also give them the _choice_.”

Their proposal would still allow someone to become a Knight through _any_ Service Corps, so long as it was paired with the necessary understanding and experience in the Force, through a Heritage Corps education under the guidance of a Master. And it still kept them together, living and working and learning side by side, as one people.

Obi-Wan doesn’t back down under their scrutiny for that statement, and bolsters himself on his own conviction. He marvels, a little, not at his own boldness, but at his own growth, which was so often so very hard to measure. Three years ago… he doubts he would have, _could_ have, made that argument three years ago, when he was so desperate to be a Knight, to stay at the Temple, to lose his chance, that he all but begged Master’s to take him on as a Learner, burning with humiliation but too desperate and afraid not to try. He would never have been able to conceive of anyone raised by the Order not wanting to be a knight, and – he may have been angry at them, too. Because they were casting off what he wanted so badly like it mattered so little to them. Like all his hopes and dreams were so easy to give up.

But that was a narrow, frightened point of view, and Obi-Wan knew so much more now. He hopes, that had he been sent to the AgriCorps, that he would have opened his heart and mind more in time, to find peace in that life, but he is grateful for what he has now.

“The Initiates Council and the Council of Reassignment are going to be in tears for having to back-track all the paperwork they’ve already done.”

“Kindly do not point that out to me.” Master Gallia asks, glancing aside shrewdly. “I’ll start drafting an amendment proposal.” She sighs. “If we could review that poll?" Obi-Wan hands her the datapad. " And we'll call a vote.”

Obi-Wan feels his lips twitch a little, because Master Gallia had declined a seat, claiming her current duties more than enough to be dealing with, but she had been offered an open invitation to the Council Chamber whenever they met, and Master Rancisis had conveniently neglected to officially abdicate his seat when accepting his new role. Master Gallia was stubborn, so it might take a year – or two or three, but he has no doubts that they will eventually get her to accept her place on the Council.

“While on the topic of voting….” Master Koon rumbles, slipping out of conversation with Master Mundi. “There are still the appointments of a Knight and a Padawan-“

Eyes on him, and Obi-Wan sweats a little.

“My padawan will _not_ be available.”

Obi-Wan loves his Master, and Master Ben’s timing, as he steps into the room behind the troop of Padawan and Initiate/Knights.

“So kindly stop attempting to thrust more responsibility upon him. He’s already stressed about the exams he’s taking next week.” Master Ben explains.

“Not available?” Master Mundi inquires, looking Obi-Wan up and down as if the padawan ight suddenly fall ill.

“We’re taking an assignment.” Master Ben smiles, and Obi-Wan can feel the scrutiny of the Council intensify on his master, as Master Ben passes a datapad to Master Gallia, who glares at him.

“Explain?” She suggests tersely, and Obi-Wan gets the impression that she begrudged him that he somehow slipped free of dealing with this administrative overhaul, but she did not.

“Myself, my padawan, Master Tholme, and Padawan Vos.” Master Ben smiles sharply, his gaze half a warning. “As soon as Obi-Wan completes his examinations for promotion.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach drops. What if he doesn’t pass? Does that mean they won’t doing the mission? That would be...dreadful.

“Details, pray tell, have you?” Master Yaddle inquires.

Master Ben tilts his head, arms folded in front of him and there is a tilt to his stance that is indicative of his master’s stubborness, and Obi-Wan feels like he’s missing a great deal of context in the glaring match between Master Ben and Master Yaddle.

“Some time ago, the Temple lost contact with a Jedi Master Ky Narec.” Master Ben says, which is so out of the blue that most of those in the room look uncertain as to what he is referring. “I believe we may be able to find him.”

Master Gallia glances around with a frown, and Master Windu gives Master Ben a narrow eyed, suspicious look. “You’ve received information on Master Narec's whereabouts?”

“I may have a lead.” Master Ben says vaguely, not breaking his competition of wills with Master Yaddle. “Though I believe our investigation may lead us to some…. _interesting_ places. We'll likely be gone for some time.”

“We could assign-“

“Master Gallia, forgive me.” He looks to her, finally. “I do have a certain personal interest in this case, as it pertains to...other matters of a sensitive nature. I _will_ be taking this mission.”

The tholotian sets her jaw, affronted by his slightly indecorous manner, but her gaze was also lit with confusion. “Very well, Master Naasade. I can hardly protest as you’ve actually elected to take support this time around.”

“Is Padawan Vos even cleared to leave the Temple?” Master Poof inquires reservedly. “Is that wise?”

Master Ben offers him a pinched smile and a hard look. “Have a little _faith_ , Master Poof.”

Obi-Wan does his best not to glare at the quermian, but it wasn’t fair. Quinlan had proven himself, hadn’t he? He was doing the best he could given his circumstances. He deserved the chance to prove he could do better. He deserved not to feel like his _home_ was a _prison_.

He could still be a Jedi. Obi-Wan was certain of it.

Then it hits him.

 _We’re going on a mission_! He realizes, with a fierce burst of energy. _I can’t wait to tell him!_

Then, of course, follows the second _: Oh ka'ra, I better pass those exams!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: feedback is excellent! Thank you all and hopefully this sorts out some of the problems you guys noticed with the last chapter. (Also it makes it a bit easier to write my way through) Not all of them, though, because what's a Star Wars story without a little beaurocratic malfunction?


	6. Chapter 6

Ben opens his door, sees who’s waiting for him in the corridor, closes his eyes, and sighs. He steps back and gestures aside. “Fay, do come in.”

She smiles beautifully at him. “I come bearing cookies.” She says first, and then; “You do know that having their time-traveler assign himself obscure and out-of-the-black missions just put the monkey-lizard among the loth-cats? Watching them have frustrated half-conversations because half of them know and half of them don’t and they don’t know who _needs_ to know was a _delight_.”

Ben smirks faintly. “I proposed it in that manner precisely because I didn’t want them asking too direct of questions.”

Fay’s mist-grey eyes gleam. “Oh? Well then – here’s a too direct question: what’s so special about Master Ky Narec?”

Ben steps into his kitchen and she sprawls herself across the sofa, placing the tin of cookies on the table. “Are you asking as a friend or as a member of the Council?”

She looks affronted. “I was guilt-tripped into that position and you know it.”

“I know that Yoda made his eyes very big and drooped his ears very low and you caved like a damp tissue.” Ben counters with a half-smile.

“Yes, well, when you get a grandpadawan, see how strong your willpower is when they want something.”

Ben swallows, stirring his tea. “I had one.” He says quietly.

Fay sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “Oh hell, Ben.”

He smiles ruefully, and pours her a cup, carrying them out to the sofa and handing her one. She takes a sip, moans a little, sits up, nibbles on a cookie, and takes another sip. “So, Ben – Ky Narec? And I _am_ asking as a friend. I will only ever ask as a friend. If I have to ask as a Councilor, I assure you, I will do it in the Council Chamber.”

“My investment in Master Narec, I’m sorry to say, is not about him for his own sake.”

Fay’s brow pinches a little. “Intriguing, go on.” Ben smiles, well used to her manner.

“Some years ago, he found himself stranded on an underdeveloped planet in the Outer Rim. On this planet, he encountered a young child – a girl very powerful in the Force.” Ben says. “A Jedi Master, no where to go…” Ben shrugs, and Fay snorts a little.

“He took her on as his Padawan.” Fay finishes for him.

“Yes, but the bond between Master Narec and his student… she was very young, and when they met, she was a slave. He was more than just her teacher, he _raised_ her, Fay.” Ben explains.

Fay nods, sighing slightly at that, because in his simple words she can discern a breadth of meaning, and in his emphasis, she can discern that that meaning is far more important than most would realize, and far too likely, given then trend of the things he has told her, to have ended in tragedy.

“Who was she?” Fay asks, wiping crumbs off her lip.

Ben’s smile is a slightly painful thing. “Asajj Ventress.”

Fay takes a sip, swallows, sets her cup down, licks her lip, and then looks him dead in the eyes. “Oh.”

Ben nods. “Oh.”

“That would be the Sith Apprentice whom tortured you the edge of insanity?” Fay clarified.

“That would be, yes.” Ben nods. “But there is… far more to her story than that.”

Fay’s eyes narrow. “Ben.” She says warningly, old prejudice sharpened by loss rearing its head. “She was a _Sith Apprentice_. You told me yourself how deeply and viscerally she terrified you. How she, of all them, came the closest to killing you – worse, to _breaking_ you.”

Ben bites down a sigh – and a correction. In terms of breaking him, Ventress was only second best.

But that was because love was far more dangerous than fear.

Fay stares at him – glares at him. “You… you _forgave_ her.”

“Asajj Ventress was a Sith Apprentice. I believe, that had her masters allowed her to reach her full power, her full potential, she would have outmatched all of them in time. But they would not allow her. They betrayed her, and in doing so…. They set her free. She _was_ a Sith Apprentice, Fay. But that was _not_ the end of her story.”

Fay continues to stare at him, waiting, and Ben takes a bite of a cookie, pleasantly distracted by the sweet nuttiness, takes a sip of tea, and continues.

“I don’t know how she Fell – willingly or unwillingly. But I do know that she is the only Darksider I have ever known who walked back to the Light completely on their own. Now, I’m not saying she went and turned into a Jedi, but she found… a balance, between the Light and the Dark, one that did not tear her apart.” He smiles ruefully. “She even went on to save my life. I’d say… in the end, we were even almost…friendly.”

“In the end?”

“She saw me, after…. after Order 66.” Ben admits, remembering the stark flash of fear he felt when _he_ saw her. Bounty Hunters and Imperial Scouts didn’t phase him, but _her_ … “We saw each other across a cantina. She bought me a drink. I bought her one. We shared a moment of silence, and then we went our separate ways and never saw each other again.”

And she didn’t turn him in, else the Empire would have slammed down on Tatooine and left nothing behind. She didn’t turn him in, not even for the richest bounty in the galaxy.

There had been so much he had wanted to ask, had driven him to almost, almost cross the length of the bar, in that silent moment, and there had been so much pity in her eyes that he didn’t dare.

“She was…a truly remarkable woman.” Ben murmurs.

Fay lets out a soft breath. “Ben…”

The door chimes, and without waiting, Quinlan Vos opens the door and strides in like an over-excited boonta-hound. “You’re getting me out of here?” He demands brightly, stuttering to a stop when he notices the golden-haired woman draped across Ben’s furniture.

“We have a mission, yes. Padawan Quinlan Vos, Master Fay. Fay, meet Quinlan.”

Fay gives the teen a long side-look, and then Ben, and a mischievous smile spreads across her face, understanding flashing in her eyes. “So much makes more sense now. A delight, Padawan Vos. Cookie?”

Quinlan grins at her warm greeting and takes the cookie with his fingertips, careful not to touch her hand, flipping it in the air before taking a large bite, and smirking at Ben. “I’m a delight.” He waggles his brows, and Ben sighs long-sufferingly, though he is quietly pleased at Quinlan’s good humor, given the sickly yellow veining through the brown of his irises, and the stinging touch of cold he’s brought into the room with him.

Quinlan turns back to Fay. “So, you and Ben seem _friendly_.” He says suggestively.

“Quinlan.” Ben scolds, but Fay just peals with laughter. “Not nearly as much as one could hope.” She pouts exaggeratedly, beaming delightedly at Ben’s aghast expression.

“ _Fay_.”

Quinlan’s eyes light up, his grin thrilled, and Ben… Ben will regret their introduction, he’s sure.

~*~

“Sian.” She pushes the equitpment storage compartment closed and looks up to see Master Ben crossing the salle. “Your technique is improving greatly.” He praises.

“Master Ben!” She smiles, having noticed him enter the salles earlier, but he’d stayed away from all the other jedi in the room, finding an open space to perform his own blade mediation instead. “I was hoping you might have some pointers for me.”

“Ah – I didn’t want to interrupt.” He gestures vaguely, to Komari’s departure. “It’s good for members of a lineage to bond.”

Sian pauses a little, tilting her head, because she has… suspicions. Frankly, wild, over-indulgent suspicions even by her standard, perhaps, but…. Little inkling of intuition and tiny details that just kept slotting into place. “It is.” Sian agrees heartily, stepping over to him. “I was going to head to the Dining Hall for a snack, would you like to join me?”

“Will Master Qui-Gon not be?” Master Ben inquires.

“He’s giving a lecture on the Living Force to a group of AgriCorps…uh…Disciples?” Sian tests out the new title, having gotten the update that morning from Siri. “I knew they were in Temple so I suggested it might be something he could do for them. To be proactive in the Order’s integration, you know?”

“And he just… accepted that?” Master Ben asks tactfully.

Sian grins. “I suggested it in front of Master Gallia at breakfast.”

Master Ben pauses, and then glee spreads across his face. “Ah.” He remarks.

“ _Ah_.” Sian copies. “I know our Master well.”

“It appears you do.” Master Ben snorts, and he doesn’t even notice.

“I’m sure he’ll assign me a dreadful amount of Ataru katas this evening as payback, but.” Sian shrugs. “It’s all worth it – and better to keep him occupied than let him get bored.”

“A bored Qui-Gon Jinn is an irritable and creative Qui-Gon Jinn.” Master Ben agrees. “But katas? Not meditation?”

“And a creative Qui-Gon Jinn is a dangerous Qui-Gon Jinn.” Sian grins. “And I’m an ‘aggressive meditator’, according to our master. It’s not a suitable task for discipline if I _enjoy_ it.”

“Aggressive meditator?” Master Ben laughs, and that’s twice, and he doesn’t even notice.

“You know he’s a little…distant, with me.” Sian says, wondering if _he_ faced similar issues. “But he’s very relaxed when he’s meditating, so when we meditate together… I sort of sprawl all over him in the Force? It’s the only time I really feel connected as Padawan and Master.”

“Oh dear.” Master Ben shakes his head. “I see.” He lays a comforting hand on her arm, patting her elbow. “How else is your training progressing?” He inquires thoughtfully, sobering a little. “He may be floundering a bit, but he’s not outright neglecting you, is he?”

“He’s been…trying more, these past few months.” Sian says. “I actually think the pressure and distraction of being responsible for the Temple and having to keep the young ones occupied… it got him out his head. For a man constantly telling me to _feel_ , not think – he does an awful lot of thinking, and he gets in his own way. You know how it is.”

“That wasn’t a no, Sian.” He says quietly, concerned.

She takes a deep breath, wondering what it takes, and looks him dead in the eye. “I’m doing alright, Master Obi-Wan. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, but I can handle Master Qui-Gon. He has support on all sides, and so do I. We’re okay, and we’re going to be okay.”

Her training wasn’t bad, it wasn’t behind, it just… it was training, and that was about it. But she wasn’t unhappy, and there were moments… if she didn’t press them too hard, if she didn’t engage with them too powerfully, and break whatever it was that let Master Qui-Gon _get over himself_ for half-a-second, where she could see the potential of the partnership between them in all its glory. She was sure that if she was patient, and dedicated… and…and if Master Qui-Gon got help, they could get there, really get there, and be something _amazing_.

But she doesn’t know how to broach the subject of getting Master Qui-Gon to accept help. Going around him to the healers feels like betrayal, but confronting him about it feels like accusing him of not being enough, and Sian _can’t_ ….

She’ll figure it out. For now – they’re okay. And that’s good enough.

It takes him a minute, but Master Ben finally gets the message, and something shutters in his gaze, and he takes a half-step away from her. “Ah… I think you…”

Sian stares at him, iridescent gaze shining, her focus and intent a fine and poignant point in the Force. No, she did _not_ make a mistake.

“You can’t know that.” He finally says, soft as a feather of air.

“I-“

“No, _listen_ to me, Sian Jeisel.” He says, and that softness suddenly isn’t gentle at all, it’s dark and cold and sharp and dangerous. “You _can’t_ _know that_.”

“But I figured it out!” Sian protests quietly, almost swallowing her own voice at the cold look he gives her. “Why is it so bad? Aren’t you lonely?”

The coldness fades, and he looks tired. He looks so tired, and Sian tries to see Obi-Wan, tries to see her friend in his face, and he’s barely there at all. They are the same person, somehow, but there’s barely fragments left of that boy in the man he became.

“I should have been more careful.” He says. “Or you less clever.” His lips twitch, but Sian still feels rooted to the spot under a dread warning. “We’re going to Master Yaddle, and we are going now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not yet.” He sighs, and there is a trace of anger beneath his breath. “That knowledge is _dangerous_ , Sian.”

“I wouldn’t tell.” Sian swears vehemently, keeping her voice down.

“Not even Obi-Wan?”

She can’t help it – she hesitates, and he shakes his head.

“Are you going to make me forget?” She asks quietly.

“I highly doubt making you forget would keep you from figuring it out again.” He sighs, and takes her by the hand, leading her. He doesn’t hold her hand the same way Obi-Wan does. “But there are…techniques that Shadows use, to protect themselves from the things they know.”

Sian nods, accepting that. “I’m sorry, Master Ben.” She murmurs.

“Oh, little sister.” He sighs sadly. “So am I.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Bant, I’m fine.” Obi-Wan insists. “Really.”

The mon calamari teen tips back her broad pink crown and peers down at him with large silver eyes.

Obi-Wan takes a breath, and then another, and then another. “Perfectly fine.”

“You will be, Obi-Wan.” She replies patiently. “So _calm down_.”

“I am-“ He was not calm. His stomach was turning in knots and he didn’t know if he should pick of his spoon or his teacup or pull out his datapad again, because he thought maybe he was confusing that one treatise with-

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Bant burbles his name, half laughing but full of compassion. “Stop it.”

Obi-Wan groans, burying his face in his hands and almost putting an elbow in his toast. “What if I don’t get high enough marks?”

“Then you don’t get high enough marks.” Bant says pragmatically. “Which won’t kill you. Obi, you don’t have to make Senior Padawan right this minute, you know. You’ve only been a Padawan for three years. If you’re not ready yet – don’t try and force it.”

“But…I don’t want to disappoint my master. Or the Council.” His ears feel hot. “How would it look to the Order if they hold me up as some standard and yet I can’t even-“

“One, your master is never disappointed in you.” Bant points out, laying a soothing hand on his arm, and wrapping him in a shroud of gentle calm and comfort in the Force, which makes it very hard to remain sick to his stomach with anxiety over his examinations. “Two, the Council has no right to be disappointed in you. What you have accomplished as a Junior Padawan is above and beyond what most Knights could accomplish by the time they reach Mastery. What you’ve done for the Order, Obi-Wan…” She shakes her head. “We have a future because of you. Never forget that.”

Okay, now his ears were burning, and he couldn’t look his friend in the face, not when she claimed things like _that_. Not when there was that thread of awe and adoration in her voice that he could not believe was reserved for him, from the girl who’d been his dearest friend since they were both in _swaddling clothes_. Who’d convinced him to try and eat a tadpole out of a pond when he was four, and who’d thrown up on him the first time they caught Jogan Fever, and suffered through headaches and psychic backlash because he was struggled with his mental discipline, and stepped on his toes when they first learned to dance, and who beat him in every spar their first three months of lightsaber training, and held his hand when he cried because he was too frustrated to think, or scared of his nightmares. She was _Bant_. He didn’t know what to do with her treating him like that.

“I was just… a messenger.” Obi-Wan mumbles.

“So?” Bant replies. “A messenger was exactly what we needed. Now eat your breakfast! You can’t test on an empty stomach. It’s bad for your brain.”

~*~

The technique was called the Tower of Cards, and Sian found it _fascinating_. She had very little interest in Shadow work, other than the mystery and intrigue it represented, but she had to admit that they had some amazing tricks. Master Yaddle had been far more scolding of Master Ben for his ‘fussing’ than she had been of Sian for, well, being clever, and they had spent the rest of the day determining how to best help Sian protect her mind with her limited training.

The concept of the Tower of Cards was the one they decided most in tune with Sian’s talents and capabilities, and it would require minimal outside assistance, thus protecting the sanctity of her mind.

The reason it was called a Tower of Cards, Master Yaddle had explained, was because it fell apart if one prodded it too closely – but falling apart was exactly what they wanted to truth to do. They wanted it to unravel, become nonsense, be made worthless by its loss of shape and definition.

In a sense, it was much like the game Two Lies and a Truth, except it was more like taking the truth and turning it into a lie, mixing it in with a dozen other half-truths, and using all of that to seem to guard something that didn’t actually exist. She visualized it like setting someone – in this case, anyone trying to pull a secret from her mind - to find the prize in the center of a mirror maze that _had_ no center.

She delighted in the pained expression that had overtaken Master Ben’s face during that part of the discussion.

The truth was that Master Ben Naasade was Obi-Wan Kenobi, was, in a sense, her brother-padawan, was a time traveler from an unknown future, who had once trained under Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn in Sian Jeisel’s place. (Figuring out he had trained under Qui-Gon Jinn had been easy – he knew her master too well. Figuring out _when_ … well, that had been frustrating, until what had started off as her own flight of fancy imagining the impossible had started to seem… well, possible.)

The lie was a dozen layered perspectives of that truth, until the truth seemed more and more like a lie, like a falsehood, like a story. Even to the mind that held it.

And Sian Jeisel was very, very good at building stories.

Actually….

The devaronian teenager grins, and Master Naasade gives her a wary, uncertain look.

 _Now wouldn’t_ that _be an idea_.

“Padawan?” Master Ben inquires.

“Just thinking, Master Ben.” She replies vaguely, drumming her fingers on her leg. “So, if Master Qui-Gon wasn’t my master the first time around, who was? Was I sent to the AgriCrops? Were you and I friends?”

She couldn’t tell anyone – not Obi-Wan, not Master Qui-Gon. No one, and the Tower of Card helped with that, making the concept seem less real even to her, less like something she wanted to tell them, but she could talk to Master Ben, or Master Yaddle, and she was given the Comm-line of one Healer Ylar Kala, if she struggled in any way as a result of this.

He offers an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately not, though I am glad you and Obi-Wan are now. He could have used a friend like you in his last life.”

Sian frowns. “You could have.” She points out. “And you and I can be friends _now_.”

A small light enters his gaze at that. “Ah, I suppose we can be.” He smiles. “And as for your master, I’m afraid I don’t know, though I do know you were chosen and attained the rank of Jedi Knight. You and I met very briefly that I can recall, and it was…memorable.”

“Memorable?” Sian prompts, bizarrely enthusiastic to hear about the other version of her.

“You waded through a battlefield just to give me one of the most righteous and well-worded lectures of my life. It was the single most awkward ending to a military engagement I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering.”

“I – why?” Sian inquires. She can’t imagine trying to take the Jedi Master to task – or Obi-Wan, for that matter. She couldn’t even conceive of a reason why she’d need to.

“We were not on the same side of the conflict, Sian.” He admits quietly. “We were both just trying to do what we believed was right, and…” he lets out a weighted breath, shuddering a little. “And we were both wrong.”

Sian frowns, uneasy, but accepting that for what it was and was not. There was little else she _could_ do. “Who won?” She asks, in spite of herself.

He doesn’t smile this time, and perhaps that is kinder. “None of us.”

 _That isn’t the future_ , she tells herself, looking into the storm behind his eyes. _That isn’t_ our _future_. She doesn’t really know anything, and she will not ask for details – he and Master Yaddle have definitely impressed upon her the importance of the things she does _not_ know, and that was a lesson she never thought she’d need to learn. She’s glad of it now, though.

Knowing him is enough to guess what his future was like.

 _Our story will be kinder_ , she swears.

Sin takes a deep breath, nods, and moves to hug the older Jedi, taking in the spices-and-soap smell of him when he allowed himself – or forced himself – to relax into her embrace, hesitating only slightly before returning the gesture tightly.

~*~

“And what have we here?” Ben inquires warmly, crossing his arms at the scene before him. Anakin and Jax both startle, and jump to an attentive posture yanking their hands behind their backs to hide the practice sabers they had been eagerly swinging at each other just a second ago, as if hiding them behind their backs would make him somehow fail to notice the buzzing blue glow.

“Ben!” Anakin beams, with a wide, cheery smile. The saber he’s hiding buzzes against the floor it was scraping. Ben lifts a brow, and Jax giggles nervously, bringing his saber back around front and giving his best friend and shove. Anakin slumps sheepishly and offers Ben his saber.

“I know the both of you know you aren’t allowed to practice with those without supervision.” Ben chides gently.

“But we have to!” Anakin protests.

“Oh?”

“If we don’t practice extra, we’ll never be as good as Obi-Wan! If he’s gonna be my master, I need to be good enough for him. I’m not a real Initiate. If I don’t train hard he won’t _want_ me.”

Ben gapes. “Anakin Skywalker, wherever did you get that preposterous idea?”

The six year old hunches and sets his jaw mulishly, glaring at the wall instead of looking at Ben, while Jax stares imploringly at the Jedi Master as if to plead ‘fix this!’.

“Ani.” Ben says calmly, lowering himself to a knee. “Talk to me, please.”

Ben feels his throat tighten, because why, why, had it once been so hard to say those four words? Why had he and his padawan never just _talked_. There had been so much to say that never went said.

“Some of the other Initiates said – said Obi-Wan didn’t have a choice. He had to train me because you wanted him to train me because you brought me to the Temple and he’s your padawan and-“ Anakin mumbles, and mumbles worse until Ben can’t understand him at all. The boy is shedding upset and uncertainty into the Force, a wild, oscillating thing that had struck some deep-rooted chord of fear.

“Anakin Skywalker.” Ben says firmly. “Obi-Wan has every choice in the world. I will not make that choice for him, nor will your other, nor will you. If he takes you as his Padawan, and he has years yet to decide, then it will be because he loves you, and he understands you. And he wants to help you rise to the best of yourself, and for no other reason.”

“But you want him to train me, and you’re his master.” Anakin protests.

Ben sighs. “Anakin, I cannot say that I _don’t_ want him to train you, but… Ani, do you even _want_ to be a Jedi? You have choices too, you know.”

Perplexingly, Anakin looks to Jax at that, like it’s reflexive, and stares at the other boy, who stares back with deep brown eyes. When Anakin looks back to Ben, there is a shade of _knowing_ in his eyes that had always, always seemed so much more intense, so much more… unknowable, than the same gift in other Jedi, and it never fails to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

“I think I _must_ learn what the Jedi have to teach me.” the six year old says, like it’s prophecy. “It’s important.”

Ben tries not to…feel too deeply, about the image before him, about the future that was always, always looming over Anakin Skywalker's head, about the prophecy of the Chosen One that had failed him utterly. About the fact that Ben has been and still is rewriting time and fates because of this boy, and the man he had been. Instead, he lets himself simply _be_ , in this _moment_.

“Well then,” Ben says gently, pushing himself back to his feet. “You can talk to Obi-Wan, about choices and about what you both want. For now, how about you let me see just how much the Jedi _have_ taught you.”

Anakin blinks uncertainly, and Ben gestures at their sabers. Delight blooms across both boys faces, and they leap to the challenge.


	8. Chapter 8

Ben has finally escaped Master Drallig’s eleven year old padawan, who had been absolutely dogged in what had felt very much like an interrogation regarding her interest in Mandalorian culture and martial techniques, and slips into his quarters to change into a less sweaty tunic and drop off his armor before meeting Mace for lunch. He did not mind assisting the Temple’s Battle Master, who had come through the Temple’s Bane epidemic rather worse for wear - quite the opposite, in fact - but Padawan Serra Keeto was a new and rambunctious addition who was quite determined to one day be a warrior of legend.

From what Ben understood, she already had a bit of a legend of her own, considering she apparently threw herself at an Anzati pirate armed with naught but a vibroknife and come out the other end of that confrontation in one piece – and that had been just the _start_ of her adventures among the ExploraCorps. One glorious result of the scattering of the Temple Jedi to the far reaches of the galaxy, was that they had all come back with quite the collection of _stories_.

Ben pauses on his way back out of his quarters, catching sight of the gap in his padawan’s door, and, on a whim, crosses their quarters. The door slides the rest of the way open, and Ben peeks inside and smiles.

Obi-Wan is fast asleep. It is half past noon, and Obi-Wan is fast asleep. The padawan is sprawled across his bed in the limber, obnoxious stretch of growing teenagers everywhere, the monochromatic comforter tangled around his limbs, his padawan braid unravelling under his ear. His face is utterly relaxed in sleep, free of the pinched worry lines that had grown more progressive the last few weeks. He looks peaceful.

Which is a relief.

Obi-Wan had been a mess of post-test nerves last night, unable to sleep till well past midnight, and he’d looked practically haunted at breakfast, which is why Ben had ordered him back to bed. They would get his exam results when they got his exam results, and they were going to be what they were going to be. Ben is very relieved his padawan actually followed that order, and that it seemed to have done the trick, if he was still buried in his pillow.

Ben slips back out of the room, setting his comm to ping Obi-Wan’s in an hour to wake the teen if he wasn’t up by then. Ben by all means encouraged his padawan to relax and recuperate, but he’d be helping neither of them by completely allowing Obi-Wan to upset his sleep cycle.

Ben makes his way to Mace’s quarters, a little behind schedule, and the door slides open almost the moment he’s pressed the doorkey.

“Oh, it’s _you_.” Knight Billaba sighs, a frown overtaking her face. Ben lifts a brow in query.

“Were you expecting someone else?” He asks lightly.

The knight makes a slightly disgruntled sound. “I was hoping his lunch date was Master Gallia. You would think they’d have gotten _somewhere_ in the year I was gone.”

“ _Depa_!” Mace appears behind her, his tone of exasperation a little mortified as well. The young knight rolls her eyes. “Is that why you kept dallying?”

The knight whips around and lifts both her brows at her master, offering a stern look which, with a little more maturity and seriousness, will one day cow Jedi master twice her age. “I apologize, master, for not realizing you wanted _rid_ of me.”

Mace chokes. “That is _not_ -“

“I’ve been away for such a _long_ time. I only wanted to spend a little time with you, but clearly-“

“Oh, be nice to him. It’s been a stressful year.” Ben cuts in, because Mace looks like he might have a heart attack, and he is much too young for that. His former padawan was incorrigible.

Knight Billaba scowls at him for spoiling her fun, but nods, flashing her master a cute grin, which had Mace deflating and covering his brow with one hand. “I’ll see you at dinner, Master.”

“You can use my name now, you know.” Her old master points out.

She makes a face, and Ben laughs.

“Go terrorize someone else.” Mace pleads lightly.

“Master Naasade.” Billaba parts politely.

“Knight Billaba.” Ben returns, and watches her slip out with a graceful lope that he remembered being a little more strident and purposeful, and a lot more dangerously intended.

Ben turns his lifted brow on Mace. “She still lives here?”

“Technically, no.” Mace replies, leading Ben into his quarters, and Ben eyes the cacti collection that lines the living area. He’s become very nearly fond of his ferns and vines after long exposure, but they didn’t have _needles_. “But I would swear she’s here more often now than she was when she actually did live here.”

Ben smirks. “She missed you.”

“We kept in touch.”

“Mace.” Ben chides. “She missed you.”

The young councilor grumbles. “Most young knights are eager to establish themselves outside the shadow of their master.”

“Most young knights don’t understand what it is to face the galaxy with their master so very far out of reach. She does. It wasn’t the mission, Mace-“ Ben catches that argument before it starts. “You were _in the temple_ during the pandemic. She could have lost you and she was half a galaxy away, and unable to do anything about it. Worse, she _could not_ come to your side, and didn’t hear from you for days. It’s one thing to outgrow one’s master. It’s another to have them snatched from your life without even a goodbye. Say all you will of death and the Force and _attachment_ , loss is a still a wound to any living soul and those who are gone are still _missed_.”

The harun kal frowns thoughtfully. “I didn’t think of that.” He murmurs, gesturing for Ben to take a seat while he fetches a pair of trays from the warming unit.

“You can’t feel it?” Ben inquires idly, not meaning any reproach by the question. “The bond between Jedi is so much firmer now. Those who haven’t returned to their temples in years are visiting home, those who have never spoken are sitting next to each other at a table and learning who they are, those passing in spaceports no longer just let each other _pass_ _by_. It’s a remarkable thing, to learn how much you need your people when you suddenly find that the threat of losing them is so very real.”

Mace sets the trays down, sits, and stares at Ben for a brief pause, and Ben winces slightly. Mace has told him before that he has an unnerving knack for turning idle conversation into something so very intense, and so very beyond the scope of comprehension for the unwary listener. He also once told him that when Ben leaned into his past, the shatterpoints around him tended to twist and snare, as if he was both being forced into place and torn from the world, all his turning points and possibilities flickering in and out in a way that made the poor man dizzy. Time travel, it appeared, did not mix well with foresight.

Ben clears his throat, and offers to pour the tea while Mace portions out their meal of grilled cacti, peppers and onions wrapped in a flatbread and smothered in sauce. Relying solely on the AgriCorps and pre-existing sustenance arrangements with various systems has reduced the variety of what the Temple had on offer in the dining halls, not that anyone complained much, and as such, private meals with companions had become more common, as most jedi had their own private stash of delicacies of some sort to add a little variety.

Mace accepted Ben’s offer of lunch at his quarters exactly once, and then – once he’d finished coughing and was a little less sweaty and maroon in the face - very politely informed Ben that he was never allowed to season anything he served Mace ever again.

Obi-Wan _may_ have a point about his enthusiastic application of Mandalorian red sauce.

“Speaking of padawans…” Mace eventually starts, after they’ve both started their meals and Ben had a chance to form an opinion on the dish – his opinion being that Mace was vastly superior at grilling a cactus than Ben ever had been, which he expressed by humming appreciatively as he tried to keep the sauce from dribbling down his beard.

Ben swallows, takes a sip of tea, and eyes the other Jedi expectantly. “I presume you have Obi-Wan’s scores?” He’d half expected that Mace would.

“I had all of ten minutes to review them whilst attempting to shoo off my former padawan before you arrived.” He confirms, reassuring Ben that no, he did not make the Naasade/Kenobi pair wait any longer than necessary. He was well aware of Obi-Wan’s stress levels, for all that he couldn’t seem to have helped himself in adding to them.

“And…?” Ben inquires. He thinks Obi-Wan should pass, hopes, but he couldn’t tell how much of Obi-Wan’s anxiety was simple anxiety and how much of it was a reasonable self-estimation of failure to prove comprehension.

“He practically regurgitated Master Bersar’s Synopsis word for word during his Political Systems and Vernacular exam. His instructor was of the opinion that if he can recite definitions verbatim then his comprehension of the subject is adequate.”

 _Word for word_ , Ben thinks blankly. It was, of course, exactly what Ben had done when he feared his own ability to express concepts would prove inadequate, but… Master Bersar’s Synopsis of Politics as a Sociological Constant was… _extensive_ , to put it mildly. _Oh, padawan._

“He exceeded the standard for Lightsaber Combat and Discipline – Master Drallig apparently snickered his way through Obi-Wan’s practical examination.” Mace reports dryly. “His Philosophy and Ethics evaluation had to be reviewed _three_ times as his… nonstandard perspective was debated.”

Ben frowns. “Obi-Wan does _not_ suffer a failing of ethics.” He remarks disbelievingly.

“I couldn’t agree more, but he has perspectives which were shaped far outside the realm the…traditional curriculum.” Mace says, being politic. Ben can guess what he means – Obi-Wan has learned philosophy not only inside the cloister of the Temple, or under the wing of his Master, but from Shmi Skywalker – a slave made free, whose understanding of things such as mercy and justice, compassion and hatred, came from real cruelties and suffering, from having lived in their grasp, and not from reading about high morals from datatext. And he had learned from Jango Fett, a king and a survivor whose insight to war and violence, to passion and honor and discipline challenged the Jedi viewpoint and philosophy. Both of them looked upon the morality of actions and inactions, of emotions and choices in very different lights. “And it was ultimately decided that his comprehension was also above standard.”

Given that that particular evaluation was also a measure of evaluating a Padawan’s fitness to conduct themselves as a representative of the Jedi, or if they needed some…intervention in their training as a result of their budding philosophy and psychology, which would influence their decisions in the long term, Ben grumbles, but is relieved that no real harm was done by the inconvenience.

“Professional Communication and Conduct third-level; Law and Treatise of the Galactic Republic fourth and fifth-level; all adequate.” Mace pauses, lips pinching, and Ben takes a sip of tea, eyeing that look with worry.

“And?” He prompts.

“And his Knowledge of Star Systems examination is…inconclusive.”

“Inconclusive?” Ben repeats blankly. Mace sets aside his utensil and laces his hands together, giving Ben one of those serious, weighted looks that usually marked him being the bearer of ill news.

“His work on the subject is not…verifiable.”

“ _What_?” Ben demands.

“It seems that the instructor selected to evaluate Padawan Kenobi saw his escalated promotion as undue favoritism in regards to his popularity, and not a status he rightfully earned, having only been a padawan for three short years. They referenced familiarity with his previous coursework as reasonable proof that he could not meet the academic expectations _honestly_.” Mace retreats into formality, a tactic Ben is all too familiar with, and it does nothing to cool his ire. “They have already been brought before the Reconciliation Council, but what was submitted appears to have been tampered with, and it could not be determined what was and was completed on Pawan Kenobi’s part given the deletions…”

“Do you have it?” Ben demands. Mace blinks, confused.

“The assignment.” Ben grits out. Mace hesitates, but nods, and withdraws a datapad from his pocket, pulling up the correct reference before handing it to Ben. Ben taps the screen roughly and lets it scroll to a random entry. He pulls out is hand-held comm-link and calls his padawan. Mace frowns, but doesn’t say anything as they wait for the call to be answered. It takes a minute.

“’ello there?” Obi-Wan finally answers in a slight daze, voice communication only.

“I do apologize for waking you, Obi-Wan, but we’re going over your exam results and I need to verify something.” Mace winces, realiseing the boy had been taking a well deserved nap.

“Of course, Master.” He sounds suddenly much more awake and much more nervous.

“What do you know about Mygeeto?” Ben inquires, his tone as casual as he can make it.

“Er… terrestrial class, outer rim. Frigid climate. It has a unique crystalline structure and it’s the homeworld of the Lurmen people. It’s er…er…crystals.” His padawan is clearly still waking up. “Right, crystals! It’s one of the worlds you can find kyber crystal on, though it’s not a world the Jedi have ever settled on. It’s essentially owned by the Intergalactic Banking Clan, and the Lurmen are treated like second class citizens, which actually led to a colonial expansion as-“

“That will suit, padawan.” Ben cuts him off, because he heard that deep breath which meant Obi-Wan was prepared to _dive_. He held the Intergalactic Banking Clan on par in his esteem with the Trade Federation, and he liked to tear into them both, even if only in discussion. Ben compares what his padawan had said with what is written. Mace leans over to look at grimaces, because it’s clear that much of the entry was redacted.

“ – oh. Alright.” Obi-Wan trails off, waiting. Ben lets the screen scroll again, and passes it back to Master Windu. Mace stops it on an entry, and Ben reads it off.

“Gorse? Inner rim planet, it’s unique because it’s tidally locked with it’s moon, Cydna. The system is mostly known for mining Thorilide.”

Ben shoots Mace a look, because there had been no entry for Gorse.

Out of sheer curiosity, Ben takes the datapad back and does a quick-reference search for Mandalore.

His brows go up, and he passes the datapad back. Mace cringes, and, just to prove a point, Ben does the same search for Tavorski. Mace gives him a dirty look.

“That will be all, Padawan Kenobi.” Master Windu says thinly. “Thank you.”

“….right.” Obi-Wan hesitates, and then abruptly closes the call. Ben winces, hoping they didn’t just turn his padawan into more of a nervous wreck.

Ben eyes Mace, and Mace eyes Ben.

“It would be appropriate to have him recomplete the evaluation under a different instructor.”

“And do you expect me to explain to him why, or would _you_ like that honor?” Ben asks scathingly. Mace is not at fault, and he knows that, but he’s furious about this. Obi-Wan wouldn’t be upset about redoing his examination – but hearing that it was because he was fundamentally betrayed by someone who had been trusted to do right by him would wound, and it wouldn’t heal easily. Ben reigns in his temper, takes a deep breath, and sighs. “Do you honestly expect, that after six months of dedicated study, the extent of his knowledge of Star Systems is behind the bar set for Senior Padawans?”

Mace sighs. “No.”

Ben gives him a pointed look.

“I’ll pass him, Ben, but I swear to you – if he ever takes the wrong turn coming off the Corellian Hyperlane…”

“Mace.” Ben says dryly. “Maybe the Hydian Way, but not the Corellian.”

Mace snorts, shaking his head, picking up his utensil and pointing it warningly in Ben’s direction. “I’ll hold you to that.” He warns. “So go offer Obi-Wan my congratulations on his promotion to Senior Padawan. He’s earned it.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Do you have it figured out, Master?” Obi-Wan inquires, ducking his head into the cockpit of the _Lighthawk_ , his _komr’k_ class Mandalorian vessel.

“Nearly.” Master Ben replies. “I think.” He adds, less certainly, and Obi-Wan grins. His master gives him a sour look. “If I don’t hit the wrong switch at precisely the worst moment, padawan, it will be a miracle.”

“Well, you know.” Obi-Wan shrugs. “Unexpected upgrades are a hazard of letting Shmi borrow a ship.”

His master grumbles beneath his breath, and Obi-Wan chuckles, rubbing at his right hand as he ducks out of the cockpit and moves back towards the loading bay and the open ramp. Shmi, true to her word, had taken excellent care of his ship, and only she and Master Ti had piloted it. She’s also taken a few engineering liberties, but, well, if the _Red Kettle_ was anything to go by, they would all be for the better. The manufacturer would likely cry bantha tears if they ever figured out what she’d done to the hyperdrive, but, well, that was unlikely.

Having to relearn how to fly his own ship, and then pass that lesson on to his master had been a bit inconvenient, though. He ducks into the galley to pick up the thermos of gimmer tea he’d left in there, sipping as he made his way back outside, still waiting for Master Tholme and Quinlan to arrive. He reaches the back ramp only to find, in place of the expected pair, one grumpy little twi’lek sitting cross-legged and cross-armed at the bottom, glowering at the durasteel floor in front of her feet.

“Aayla?” the padawan inquires. She twits around to look at him, lekku stiff and jaw stubbornly set.

“’ello, Obi-Wan.” She says politely, her accent still prominent, and likely would always be.

“Are you waiting for Quinlan?”

“He’s avoiding me.” She says with sharp disapproval. “But he _has_ to say goodbye before he leaves.”

Obi-Wan strolls down the ramp and lowers himself to sit beside her, wincing when his wrist protests taking his weight as he does. He’d had Essja take a look at it during his check-up, but the Healer had reluctantly admitted that there was little else that could be done. The bacta injections could only do so much this long after the injury, and the scarred bone would likely give him protest for the rest of his life. He’d lapsed on doing the proper stretches and rotations leading up to his exams, as busy and distracted as he had been, and he was certainly paying for it now. Master Ni Hiella had also worked with him on a few meditative techniques to help calm the pain, or at least, his awareness of it, but that wasn’t something he could do _all_ the time.

“Does your crechemaster know you’re down here?” He inquires, thinking that she had more than enough disciplinary remarks of her short record as it was. She wasn’t _bad_ , but…adjusting to the Temple was no easy path forward for her, given her background, and her experiences, and her stubbornness.

“I told Lyra.” Aayla says succinctly. “She’ll tell if she needs to.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t scold her for sneaking off. Aayla’s not dumb – she knows she’ll get in trouble. She has just decided that her trouble is worth it, because Quinlan means a lot to her. There is a bond between them, and it’s not so easily denied as some might wish it to be.

“Is that for Quinlan?” Obi-Wan asks, pointing to the flimsiplast she’s got tucked under her legs. She nods, biting her lip, and offers to let him look at it. “I drew it for him. I’m getting better.”

“You’re quite the artist.” Obi-Wan praises, and she smiles. She reaches for a bulging pouch on her belt and yanks out an itty bitty little plush, a bright orange monster with glittery tusks and oversized teeth which could, conceivably, be a mythasour. She thrusts it at him. “This is for you.” She insists.

Obi-Wan’s heart wobbles a little, because she glares at him while giving it to him, and it’s just… so adorable. “Thank you. It’s awesome.” He tells her, accepting the gift and tucking the tiny monster into the edge of his vambrace, where it can snarl out at the world contentedly. He looks over the picture, and she really has gotten better. The background is a dark scrawl of black and violet ink, but over that is a cluster of butterflies, yellow on yellow on white, the shades very precise, and bright enough to burn.

Obi-Wan swallows tightly, because it so simple and yet it aches, and he runs his fingers over the image and figure out why. More than the deliberate use of color and contrast and concept, the page is practically bleeding with emotional impression, with a fierce, demanding affection.

“Oh Aayla.” Obi-Wan murmurs.

“Is it good? Do you think he’ll like it?”

Obi-Wan nods, and she slumps a little in relief. Obi-Wan looks her over considerately, because she looks both pleased and bummed out.

“Hey. It’s not your job to take care of him, you know.” Obi-Wan tells her. She gives him an affronted look. “Aayla, you’re a youngling. Your needs have to come before his. You have to take care of yourself.”

“I can take care of both of us!”

“Aayla. You don’t have to, and you shouldn’t.” Obi-Wan says kindly, having had a very similar conversation himself with Healer Kala via comm-link in regards to both his relationships with his master and with his fallen friend. “Quinlan is old enough to take care of himself. He needs a lot of help, I’m not saying he doesn’t, and all of us are trying to help him. But he also needs to learn how to help himself. He’s not shoving you away, he’s just… trying to figure out how to do that. So that you don’t have to, and that will be better for both of you, you know.”

“It’s not fair.” She scowls.

“I’m sure it doesn’t seem like it, but… it’s necessary. And this is just a moment in time. Moments pass, and more come.”

“Not always.” She refutes, too wise in that subject, and Obi-Wan presses down a quiet spark of rage at slavery, and the slavery of children in particular.

“No, not always.” Obi-Wan agrees. “But sometimes the best thing we can do is just…wait for better moments.”

She sighs noisily, and wraps her arms around her knees, dropping her chin on one. “That’s _poodoo_.” She complains, and Obi-Wan snickers.

“Yeah, a bit.” He shrugs.

“Aayla?” Master Tholme calls, and the both of them look up to see the older man making his way across the hanger, Quinlan an impatient half-pace ahead of him. It’s subtle, but people clear a path away from the kiffar as he heads their way, and the edge of a sneer on Quinlan’s face says it’s not subtle enough.

Obi-Wan reaches for their bond in his mind, just trying to gauge the kiffar’s mood, and Quinlan leans into his attention like a preen. It’s a cold, staticky mental touch, like dry snow, sometimes ticklish and cool and other times bitter and needle-like, but Obi-Wan stopped flinching from that fairly quickly. According to Quinlan, Obi-Wan’s mental touch occasionally felt like sparks flaring in his skull, which sometimes was a welcome bloom of warmth, and other times a little blinding and painful.

Aayla leaps off the ramp and charges towards the two of them, and Quinlan halts, Master Tholme stepping up ahead of him and thus catching he girl first, bearing the brunt of a forceful hug before she danced over to Quinlan, looking him up and down warily, and then offers up her hand, and nothing more. Quinlan takes it carefully, an uncomfortable look on his face, which relaxes slowly as they walk back towards Obi-Wan together.

When they reach him, Aayla darts forward, yanks the picture out of his hands, and thrusts it at Quinlan. “This is for you.” She commands, looking up at him sternly. “Come back safe.”

And then she dashes off. Master Tholme watches her go bemusedly, and Quinlan looks critically at the picture in his hand, eyes flashing faintly with yellow, and a greedy, longing look.

Obi-Wan takes a moment to study the kiffar, and then he notices the little bead strung from a small cord at the top of Quinlan’s braid. “What’s that?” He asks.

“What?” Quinlan looks up, scowling at the question. Obi-Wan waits, and Quinlan catches on, one hand reaching up for the braid and the new adornment. The yellow bleeds out of his gaze, and a far more pleasant smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “Journeyman bead.” He says, fiddling with it until it unhooks from his hair, passing it over. “Good job on introducing Master Mundi to _polling_ , by the way. He’s decided it’s his new favorite tool, and he’s released fifty of them in the last week alone.”

Obi-Wan blinks. “I have no idea how those two thing relate.” He admits. "And it wasn't me who introduced him to the concept. Blame Padawan Iara."

Master Tholme chuffs a small laugh and leaves the pair of them to each other, heading deeper into the ship as they slowly amble up the ramp.

“In light of the new changes, and yet ‘respecting what came before’, he decided to let each of the Corps hold a sort of… art contest, designing new beads to represent Journeyman status in their fields of study. The submissions were then polled for a vote, and the most popular got chosen.”

Obi-Wan has been completely unaware of all of this, but then, he’s been occupied, and his master put Obi-Wan’s comm-link on _do-not-disturb_ after his promotion to Senior Padawan.

“How’d that work for the new Corps, though?”

“All the padawans had a free for all on the three new branches.” Quinlan shrugs. “Anyways, I’ve got the one for JudiCorps. No one wants to let me have the one for HeriCorps on account of the whole ‘connected to the Dark Side’ thing.”

Obi-Wan turns the bead, studying the design. It was yellow over silver over white, a simplified lightstaff over the rounded arrow of a shield over an open book. Protection, Defense, and Order.

“What about DiploCorps?” Obi-Wan asks, tryin not to be angry about Quinlan' treatment, but being angry anyways. Obi-Wan twitches a bit when he can feel Quinlan draw on that anger through their bond, but instead of feeding it, he seems to draw it out of Obi-Wan, like sucking venom from a wound. Quinlan rolls his shoulder, eyes gleaming sharply, and gives him a look.

“It may have escaped your notice, Obi-Wan, but neither Master Tholme or I are exactly diplomats. I take only the requires courses for progression and that’s it. A qualified diplomat, I am not.”

Obi-Wan frowns a little at that, but shrugs. Quinlan had known from early on in his training that he was destined to be a Tracker and an investigator. He didn’t exactly _have_ to be diplomatic.

They make their way through the ship, to find Master Ben showing Master Tholme how to work the _Lighthawk’s_ turrets.

“Where exactly _are_ we going?” Quinlan inquires, crossing his arms. “The mission brief wasn’t exactly brimming with details.”

Master Ben gives him a pinched smile. “Rattatak, and I’m afraid I’ll need your help on finding it, and it isn’t going to be pleasant for either of us.”

Quinlan eyes him suspiciously. “That sounds familiar and dubious. Care to elaborate?”

“It’s a backwater planet we aren’t going to find on any star chart we can get our hands on here.” Master Ben explains.

“Okay…” Quinlan narrows his eyes.

“I was held there once for a period of time. Given that I was unconscious upon my arrival and my departure followed several weeks of trauma I rather suppressed, I can’t recall where, exactly the planet is located.”

“You want me to root through your awful memories to find coordinates?” Quinlan asks in disbelief. “That is a terrible idea!”

“It’s…one of two options.” Master Ben replies. “Neither option is ideal.”

“What’s the second option?” Master Tholme asks, green eye dark with warning. “Quinlan doesn’t have the best track record with your memories, Master Naasade.” He growls lowly, bristling protectively.

“Tracking down an acquaintance of mine and hoping no one gets kidnapped and nothing gets stolen in the process, and that he actually has the information we need, which there is every chance he does not.”

“Acquaintance?”

“Hondo Ohnaka, the Pirate King of Florrum.” Master Ben says dryly.

Obi-Wan groans, and Quinlan pulls a face. Master Tholme looks between both teenagers with puzzled concern.

“Let’s try traumatic memories.” Quinlan chirps with false joviality. “Sure, why not.”

Master Ben offers him an amused grimace, as if to say he _did_ warn him.


	10. Chapter 10

_Anakin, Anakin, my padawan. He’s here. Is he real? Is this real, or am I dying? Anakin_! -

“Not mine, not mine” Quinlan chants under his breath, drawing back to ground himself.

_Mountains, daylight – too bright, no stars, no direction._

_Alpha. Alpha-17. “We’ll survive this.” “Shut up, sir.” Rude. Rude, but so competent. Clearly, the general was distracting a man at work. “Don’t tell me what I already know. Now run.”_

_Durasteel, filtered air. Safety. Safety? Are we safe? Is this real? Or is she just_ waiting-

It’s just memories. Quinlan forces back panic and doubt and the terrible uncertainty that had wavered Ben’s sanity between hallucination and dreams.

Those things didn’t belong to him.

_Durasteel, filtered air. Droids, armor, a thousand familiar faces. A shudder in the hulls, blue-white streaks streaming by-_

No stars, no coordinates. Damn.

“Your memories are useless. You weren’t aware enough to have noticed even if you had been told, or happened to look at a nav-chart, which you _did not_.” Quinlan reports grumpily, having gotten nothing but the same reel of fragments over and over, no matter how much Ben focused.

“My apologies.” Ben mutters, rubbing at his brow, eyes half-lidded with focus as he tucks those memories back into whatever dark lockbox in his brain he had them hidden in. When he finally looks up, he and Quinlan share a defeated look.

“Option number two?” Quinlan grouses.

“Option number two.” Ben sighs.

~*~

“I’m not even going to even inquire as to whether or not you are busy.”

Adi look up, absently adjusting one stack of datapads too close to tipping off the edge of her desk, to see Master Fay occupying her doorway, one tiny green initiate sitting in her hood, bright grey eyes and large green ears peeking over her shoulder. Adi tips her head inquisitively, but gestures to invite them in.

“That is fair.” Adi smiles a bit. “But I can spare you a moment.”

“Delightful.” Master Fay smiles back, brimming with vigorous good-will as she all but flops into the chair with grace. “I would like to talk to you about reviving an old practice.”

Adi pauses, running one finger over her bottom lip before pointing out; “As the Chairman of the HeriCorps, any educational directives in that direction _are_ under your purview.”

Fay’s smile turns a little pinched at the reminder of her new position, but she nods in acknowledgement nonetheless. “Yes, however, I am not speaking of an educational directive, but of an assignment, which is rather more under _your_ purview.”

Adi folds her hands together on the desk. “I am not actually the sole point of contact for mission assignment. That is the purview of the Council. Of which one of us is a part, and that one of us is not _me_.”

Fay gives her a laughing, knowing look, and Adi grumbles. Internally. “Be that as it may, Adi, any assignment which affects the relationship between the Order and the Galactic Republic _does_ fall under your purview.”

“I’m not sure I’m enthused as to where this is going.”

“I don’t mean to weight your burden further.” Fay laughs.

 _What is meant_ , Adi thinks, _and what is done are not always the same_. But she will bear it nonetheless, and without grudge. She accepted her responsibilities knowing they would not be easily carried.

“Nothing harmful, I promise.” Fay swears. “I understand the current requirements for assignment – pairing Master’s and Knight’s is certainly far safer and, to be honest, the mission results speak for themselves as to the increased effectiveness and efficiency, but I would like you to consider reviving the Jedi Rangers.”

Adi frowns. “I’m afraid, Fay, that whatever you are referring to far predates me.”

“I know.” The aged, if youthful appearing master sighs. “Rangers did, well, much as I have been doing for the last few centuries. They let the Force guide them through the galaxy, taking them where they were most needed and assigning themselves as they saw fit to solve the problems they encountered. This would be a position for Masters - and perhaps even only masters of a certain caliber, given the potential threat to any jedi on their own, if what we suspect is true - and the reporting system would have to be far more rigorous than what I accomplished, but… I believe it is something the galaxy sorely needs, especially with our numbers so low.”

Adi quells the immediate denial, born of the belly-deep fear of losing any more to their own blind confidence – reminding herself that the Jedi are no longer so blindly confident, that they have seen now how precarious their position is.

“Attitudes towards the Jedi are not at their best now.” Adi says carefully. “It may not be best for us to show up anywhere unannounced.” The _Temple’s Bane_ had done more than decimate the Order – it had sown a quiet fear of them. Plague Carriers, they had been called – they had _been_ – and that was not easily forgotten, nor forgiven, whether they were at fault or not.

“In the Republic, perhaps.” Fay says, something a little contemptuous in her voice. “But the Republic is not the galaxy, and that is something our people are prone to forgetting.”

Adi stays quiet, and it is a pointed, questioning silence.

Fay sighs. “It is not just that most of our aide is requested by the Senate. Worlds beyond their grasp must ask the Senate for our help, and worlds that cannot or will not do so, what are we to them? The Jedi may have helped build this government, Adi, but this government is not who _we_ are. The galaxy has forgotten that. And so have we. There are systems far beyond Coruscant’s reach that need us, and we have ignored them for centuries. If this is a time for change…” She trails off, and Adi realizes that in her tone Fay is not making a request, but a plea. This is important to her, this is what drew her back into the fold, the hope that maybe, maybe, she can help regain some of what her people have lost. Some of what _she_ has lost.

Adi leans back in her seat, takes a breath, and scolds herself for thinking so strictly of policy that somewhere along the way even she has lost her focus on _purpose_.

“Tell me more.” Adi says, _there is much of who we are and who we used to be that we have yet to learn_. Starting with her.

~*~

“Oh ho, Jedi, I must say!” Hondo beams, flashing a gold tooth and spreading his arms wide. “This is a magnificent day! Come, come.” He invites them over, and Ben smiles grimacingly while Obi-Wan and Quinlan – who had argued over opening the airlock to the point of physical shoving, when Quinlan had tried to disengage the seal with the other side _open_ – share a dubious look. “It is not every day a Jedi asks a pirate like _me_ , Hondo Ohnaka, _personally_ , for a favor.”

“Jedi aren’t in the habit of asking any pirates for favors.” Ben replies.

“ _Exactly_!” Hondo elates with a spring in his step.

Ben had tried, truly, to get the information they wanted over comm. He had. Hondo, however, was as wily as he was disastrous. The weequay had wanted to meet with them, so the were meeting. But Ben had flatly refused to invite the pirate over to Obi-Wan’s ship. He’d like the _Lighthawk_ to survive this mission, if at all possible. Obi-Wan had only just decided on its name.

The weequay saucer was larger, the circular design unique to weequay engineering, and far more maneuverable than giant dish of the ship looked.

“But then, most Jedi wouldn’t think to ask a pirate to betray other pirates. A risky business, that.” Hondo comments, eyes narrowing behind tinted lenses. “You never know whose loyalties you might be challenging.”

Ben plants his feet, crosses his arms, and levels the pirate with a flat look. “I’m hardly forcing your hand, Hondo. If you don’t wish to help us, tell us so and we’ll be on our way.”

“Did I say so?” Hondo inquires, turning around and sprawling down into his captains chair, his crew eyeing the Jedi aggressively. “I did not say so. Rattatak is…. A strange location, for a Jedi to go. There must be something _very_ valuable there, no?” His eyes gleam.

“This is a rescue mission.” Ben counters calmly.

“ _Someone_ important.” Hondo corrects, grinning.

“You said you don’t hold with slavery.” Obi-Wan frowns, eyeing the pirate. Hondo gasps, flinging a hand against his chest.

“I do not! Who said anything about slavery?” Hondo protests. Ben gives him a dirty look.

“Hostage taking and ransom aren’t slavery.” Quinlan points out with a dark look, eyes gleaming a little yellow. “Depending on who's paying for ransom.”

“We’re looking for a stranded Jedi.” Ben says quietly, wishing Tholme were here to keep a closer eye on his padawan, but Tholme was still on the _Lighthawk_ , just in case.

“And how is this worth my while?” Hondo inquires. “Rattatak is a very dangerous place. For a jedi. Even for a pirate like me. Much competition. We are not running a charity here!” he crows, and some of his crew snicker. Hondo leans forward in his chair, eyeing them up and down. “Beskar suits you, Jedi. Very handsome. Very… valuable.”

Ben lifts an unimpressed brow. “You know better than to ask a Mandalorian for their armor, Captain Ohnaka.” He replies coolly.

“I say we kick ‘em off, boss.” Another pirate pipes up. “Jedi ain’t ever got much on ‘em. Cheap bastards.” They spit.

Ben and Quinlan share a look. “Don’t be uncivil.” Ben turns, glancing at the speaker. “We are only just entering negotiations.” He smiles amusedly. “Isn’t that right, Hondo?”

The weequay rubs his palms together, his monkey-lizard squawking on the back of his chair, and grins. “Of course! We are all _friends_ here.”

Quinlan smirks.


	11. Chapter 11

There is an unholy screech, and Obi-Wan lurches awake with a jolt. He blinks, half turned over, to see Hondo’s Kowakian Monkey-Lizard hopping up and down angrily, chittering, and Obi-Wan’s lightsaber on the floor, the crystals ringing with an indignant pitch.

“You got what you deserved.” Obi-Wan mutters at the thieving little vulture, which squawks at him and flees the room. They’d managed to keep the pirates off the _Lighthawk_ – but not their pets.

Obi-Wan slumps back into his bunk, staring at the durasteel paneling for a minute or so before being awake and inactive starts to grate. His master’s training regimen had many benefits – the inability to enjoy any span of idleness was not one of them, his mind always moving on to what he could be doing, or should be doing.

With a sigh, Obi-Wan gets up.

There has been a question niggling at the back of his mind for a few days now, but since no one else asked it, he figured perhaps he was merely missing something? But not knowing was bothering him, so… he might as well ask. It’s not like his master would mind.

Master Ben is pretty easy to find – mostly because the kowakian monkey-lizard appears to have found him, and he swears something at it loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear.

Grinning, Obi-Wan heads towards the cockpit, to find his master with a tea soaked sleeve and a very unhappy monkey-lizard screeching as it tries to find purchase on air, suspended with the Force.

“ – reprehensible little monster!” Master Ben finishes muttering, and Obi-Wan snickers. His master turns to spot him, and sighs. “Good morning, Padawan.”

“Good morning, Master.” Obi-Wan returns, lifting a hand towards the angry little creature and giving it a gentle tug out of the cockpit, sealing the door as it natters at them, shutting it out.

“Good riddance.” Master Ben utters, standing to shuck his robe, wiping his hand off on it before he bundles it up and drops it on the floor, eyeing the door – and what remains outside of it, irritably.

“Patience and kindness, master.” Obi-Wan chides teasingly. “It’s an innocent creature.”

“ _Innocent_.” His master scoffs huffily, scratching at his beard before sharing a slightly self-depreciating, amused look with his student. “It’s a menace, is what it is.”

Obi-Wan moves over to drop into the co-pilot chair, a smile on his face. “Well, I won’t argue with that.”

The stars stream by, blazing blue-white streaks playing with light and shadows over the control console, washing his master’s hair with silver, though he looks younger now than he did when they first met. Obi-Wan hadn’t realized it then, but his master had been in truly hazardous condition when he first arrived at the Temple, too thin and worn out, face cracked by weather, hair bleached colorless by some scalding sun. Shmi had once said he had been too old for his bones. But time and care had revitalized him – helped along by Bacta, of course – and Obi-Wan was glad of it.

His master catches him staring, and lifts an inquisitive brow.

“Why are we rescuing Master Narec?” Obi-Wan asks.

The other brow rises to match it’s companion. “I would think that would be obvious.” His master replies. Obi-Wan can feel his ears redden a little.

“I meant… why now? Master… how long have you known where he is?” That is what had bothered Obi-Wan, the fact that his master just seemed to have _had_ this information, that no one else did, and… done nothing, until it was convenient.

There’s a quiet brush against his mind from his Master’s side of their bond, tentative and searching, and Obi-Wan doesn’t push back against it, studying his master’s face patiently, and wondering if the man will lie to him. Wondering if he’ll even know if his master does.

It’s something he’s come to accept – that there is much about his master he’ll never know – much he isn’t _allowed_ to know – but that his master _tries_ to be honest with him.

His master’s expression pinches, rueful, and he shakes his head a little. “Years.” He replies simply.

Obi-Wan’s jaw drops a little. “Years? And you just – left him there?”

His master crosses his arms. “When I say rescue mission, Obi-Wan, I think you mistake me. Master Narec is not in _distress_. His present situation is…. not unlike a Watchman posting. A bit involuntary at the outset, but… he’s made a home for himself where he is.”

Obi-Wan really, really wonders where his master gets his information, but, well, he has a feeling it comes from his past as a Shadow, and all of that is strictly off-limits.

“The reason we are seeking him out now, Obi-Wan, is because his situation is becoming precarious. As Hondo said – Rattatak is a dangerous place. And…” His master slows down, and Obi-Wan can see him carefully choosing his words. “I believe he has something that we are going to need.”

~*~

“Did something fall on your head?”

Asajj starts, yanking her attention back to her master, who is watching her with a wry, expectant expression. Asajj blinks at him, considering her thoughts, and shakes her head.

“Little one, you keep looking at the sky like it’s going to hit you.” He remarks pointedly, voice fond. Asajj flushes. She’s not a little kid anymore, but the endearment still makes something sweet brim up in her chest. It’s the closest she’s ever had to being called ‘daughter’. It’s what he means, though. It took her a long time to figure that out, but then, it hadn’t meant that at first. ‘Little One’ wasn’t _padawan_. Wasn’t _student_. Wasn’t _Asajj Ventress what in the Force_ -

It took him longer to figure out that when she called him ‘Master’ – and hadn’t he panicked that first time, knowing what that word had meant for her before him, but he learned, and it was her choice – she was really saying ‘Papa’.

“I’m not so little anymore, master.” Asajj insists, twirling her saber and reminding herself to pay more attention to the lesson. “And it _might_.” She adds. They were hardly strangers to hostiles suddenly descending from above.

He cracks a smile, shaking his head, which always sets his ponytail swinging. Asajj grins back at him, her nose crinkling. His stubble is getting scruffy, and they are really going to have to get new boots soon, the both of them about worn down to their soles, but he’s moving much more fluidly this morning, telling her that his back injury is healing up just fine. She still can’t believe he let himself get kicked off a cliff by that krayt dung Siniteen slaver, and she is _not_ going to let him forget it any time soon, but she’d been _worried_. His species just didn’t seem as sturdy as hers.

“Do you feel like there will be a raid today?” He inquires, bringing his saber back up to bear and gesturing for her to test his guard.

Asajj studies his form, his stance, the canny look in his eyes. “I don’t know. It feels…” She searches herself, and lunges in, grunting when she slams into his block. “… different.”

They were no strangers to clashing Siniteen warlords, or to weequay raiders, and the both of them were so attuned to it at this point that one or the other always knew where violence was about to strike. Most of the time, they beat it to the punch. It was just another part of their routine – wake up, fetch water, morning stretches – go stop a raid – spar a bit, meditate, eat – go raid a slaver – mend clothes, bathe, sleep, sunrise, switch, repeat.

Asajj twists, lightsaber skimming his blade, and slams into his guard again, gritting her teeth, testing his stance, testing his grounding in the Force. She leaps back and swings, and their blades dance around each other. Her frustration sparks, and she breathes deeply to release it. There’s nothing they can do about it, but she wishes they had four proper sabers to use. Her master specialized in _jar’kai_ , and Asajj was decent, but it was hard to really tell when the only kind of spar she could have to practice that form was done with wooden sticks. She longs for that other blade in her hand, to make use of all the openings she can see and sense but can’t act on.

He leaps over a low swing, putting a hand on her shoulder to push himself over her reach, and she drops that shoulder low, drops her saber, and punches him in the ribs. He stumbles his landing with a cough and shoots her a dirty look. Asajj grins, picking her saber back up. “You left yourself open, master.”

“I regret ever teaching you that.” He wheezes, lifting one hand for a halt. Asajj clips her saber – his second, really, but he gave it to her when she officially began training as a Padawan – to her belt and helps him back to his feet.

“Meditation?” She proposes.

“Breakfast.” He counters, rolling his shoulder with a grimace and rubbing at what was sure to be a new bruise.

Asajj considers it, and nods. “Breakfast.” She agrees.

“And Padawan?” He pauses. “Well done.”

She glows at the praise.


	12. Chapter 12

“Hondo, perhaps reconsider this.” Ben steps in his way, hands placating. “We were going to handle this _discreetly_ -“

“This will not stand!” The pirate rages, stomping with a twirl of his bright red coat. “They have insulted my mother! How could they do such a thing! Scoundrels!”

Ben shares an exasperated glance with Tholme, who has had a very abrupt crash course in the weequay’s flair for dramatics. Parlay with the weequay pirates of the Rattatak system had not gone well. Ben curses himself for his idiocy, but he hadn’t considered that he was in range of the comm-transmitter, let alone that he – and more specifically, the Jedi Order insignia on his pauldron – would be noticed. He forgets, too often, that weequay, for all their boisterous mannerisms, impulsivity, and blunt language, were dangerously canny. And that _he_ was far less inconspicuous than he used to be.

“Well, at least we know that Master Narec is alive and causing trouble.” Obi-Wan points out consolingly. “They _really_ don’t like Jedi. He must be doing a good job.”

Tholme snorts, and Ben sighs.

“Padawan, pilots chair.” Ben directs, as Hondo rallies his crew into a whooping, hollering, jeering war party, eager to defend their pride – and strip their enemy of every last credit chit and shiny bauble they could get. “Tholme, Quinlan, turrets.”

“Master, _you_ take the pilots chair.” Obi-Wan counters. “You’re the better fighter pilot!”

“Experience outranks everything, Padawan. You could use some. Pilot’s chair, _now_.”

Obi-Wan clenches his jaw, a little wide eyed, and races ahead. Tholme turns his good eye on Ben, lifting a brow. “Putting him on in a dogfight? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry, what did you have Quinlan doing at sixteen?” Ben asks innocently. Tholme’s green eye pinches in an acknowledging, guilty grimace, and Ben claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be co-pilot, but sometimes, under duress is the best way to learn.”

Ahsoka had been a war pilot at fourteen, and a good one. In comparison to her, Obi-Wan was remarkably sheltered in his experiences thus far. But then, in comparison to her….

Ben shudders, thinking of Ahsoka, and what she had been made to do, and how young she had been when she had done it, and they’d been so _proud_ , when they should have been horrified. That won’t happen again. _Please, don’t let it happen again. No more child soldiers._ He prays.

“Naasade.” Tholme grabs his arm, and Ben shakes himself.

“Caught in a thought, sorry.”

“Not a good one.” Tholme points out. “Are you steady?”

“I’m steady.” Ben assures him.

~*~

“Well that’s….interesting.” Ky mutters, laid out on a ledge with binocs held up to his eyes. “It seems they’re doing our job for us today.”

“What? Master, let me see!”

Chuckling, he passes them over, watching his padawan shuffle her weight onto her elbows and peer through the binocs, winter eyes bright as ever, pale and shining with an undercurrent of glacier blue. Her midnight blue fringe is getting long again, and he knows he’ll need to sharpen the clippers soon for the both of them. He regrets, a little, that she wears no padawan braid, that he won’t have that to hold on to when he knights her, but it had been grabbed in a fight too often when she was younger, and it had been practical to remove it. _Besides_ , _Master_ , she liked to joke, _it would mess up my new hairstyle_.

And, he sighs, it wasn’t like she would be going off without him. He doubts now that they’ll ever get the chance to leave Rattattak, for all that he missed home and she hungered for the stars.

“Pirates fighting pirates.” She growls. “Good. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the scum will wipe each other – what’s that?” She asks abruptly, craning her neck and the shoving the binocs back at him insistently, her eyes still able to track the ships without it better than his could.

Ah, to be young.

Ky lifts the binocs back to his eyes, adjusting the settings, though it’s not exactly difficult to spot what she’s seen. Weaving through the shining disks of the weequay vessels – and the burning flashes of their laser canons – was a small, angular, sleek ship wreaking absolute _devastation_ as it screamed by. The ship twirls and banks, flashing sunlight, shedding plasma bolts with envious precision, and Ky gets one very clear look and blinks.

 _What_?

“That’s a Mandalorian vessel. Have I told you about Mandalore?” He inquires. It was hard to tell what she did and did not know these days. She relied solely on him for a greater education, though the Rattattaki villagers they helped had been very instrumental in more…practical life lessons, and with her basic education when she was younger. Trying to recite to her lessons and facts he himself had half forgotten, without any way to verify his accuracy, to recreate a Temple education was… more difficult than he would admit. Let alone trying to remember what he had and had not already taught her.

“Aren’t they a warrior people, master?” Asaijj replies. “Outer Rim, tribal monarchy. Don’t they hate the Jedi?”

“Something like that.” Ky says, because she was completely correct, in so far as he was aware, and yet… he would swear, that on the belly of that green and silver vessel, had been a Jedi Order insignia, emblazoned in flashing copper.

~*~

“Stabilizers, stabilizers, _stabilizers_! Obi-Wan!” Ben grips the edge of his seat with one hand and boosts the thrusters with the other, trying to compensate.

“I’ve almost got it!” Obi-Wan insists, as the vessel whips into another hairpin turn, throwing them back in their seats and just barely staying on vector, scraping the underside of Hondo’s ship.

“ _Somebody’s gotta pay for that, Jedi! And it isn’t going to be me_!” Hondo yelps over the comm. “ _Stop scratching my ship_!”

“You technically never pay for anything.” Obi-Wan retorts, flipping switches and trying to get the forward stabilizers back into alignment.

“ _Ha! You wound me_!” Hondo gasps. “ _Well done_. _I like this one. Very spirited_!”

Obi-Wan shoots out from under the belly of Hondo’s saucer, and Quinlan sprays a hail of plasma over the startled helm of the other, who hadn’t seen them coming. It’s flashy, but it doesn’t do much damage, as shielded as that part of the vessel is – but flashy is what they want, all shock and awe, as it gets them past the vessels cannons without being blasted out of the sky.

“Tholme?” Ben taps the internal comm.

“ _Patience_.” Tholme growls back. “ _Obi-Wan_ , up. _Do_ not _spin_.” He warns direly.

Ben’s stomach lurches as Obi-Wan yanks back into a steep harrowing climb, scouring the ship beneath them with heat and giving Tholme the perfect line of sight. It’s a maneuver Ben has pulled off a thousand times, but it seems so much riskier and frightening when someone else is at the controls. “ _Ka’ra_ preserve me.” Ben utters, gritting his teeth. “Force.”

“Sorry, master.” Obi-Wan offers apologetically, as Tholme fires and Obi-Wan dives into another evasive spin, cutting the engine and burning the thrusters to turn even _faster_ , just barely dodging a deadly crossfire, the wind screaming at the shear he creates.

“I regret teaching you to fly. I regret this.” Ben swears vehemently. “Obi-Wan-!” Ben lunges for the controls, because his padawan should learn when not to try something he’s only seen done _once_ , from the _ground_ , because this was _Anakin’s_ suicidal maneuver and he was going to-

The thrusters overheat, the ship wobbling dangerously as three of them misfire, Obi-Wan blanking out in a moment of panic, because _he hadn’t known_ -

The ship careens, their arc destabilizing as they fall, and Ben tries to re-engage the engines, overriding safety protocols as the power relays threaten to overload.

“We’re falling like – not good!” Quinlan shouts up from the forward turret. Tholme is silent, and Ben can feel the quiet intensity of that silence, deliberately giving Obi-Wan and Ben the chance to think without distraction, to get something to _work_.

“Obi-Wan, slow us down!” Ben commands.

“I can’t- I don’t have-“

Falling. Falling _fast_.

“Obi-Wan. You have the Force. _Slow. Us. Down_.” Ben says calmly, firmly. “ _Now_.”

Obi-Wan yanks off his helmet, gulping, and nods, blinking rapidly as he looks straight down at the mountains below them, getting a whole lot closer way too quickly. “I-I d-d-don’t- think I-

“Don’t think.” Ben scolds, reaching over and laying an armor gloved hand on an armored shoulder, inwardly cursing as another safety program blares at him in denial. “ _Trust_. Have _faith_. Close your eyes. You _can_ do this. The Force is with you, and the world is what you make of it.”

“Kark. Kark karking fripping _shite_.” Quinlan swears quietly, just… not quietly enough, and Ben can feel him reaching for power, for the Dark Side, and Ben swats him in the Force, earning another rude malediction. “ _Kriff you_.”

Obi-Wan lifts a palm, turning it up in a gentle motion, and the ship shudders, slows, slowing…stops, and then rises, hovering just a scant few hundred feet away from sharp peaks and valleys that would have _obliterated_ them in a blaze of fiery catastrophe. Ben lets out a deep, relieved breath, and cuts out the thrusters, jumping the engine again. It whines, but it does what he wants it to do.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, looks down, and gulps. “That was close.”

Ben nods. “Put your helmet back on and take us back up.” He instructs. “We aren’t finished yet. And Obi-Wan.” He looks at his padawan. “It was a lesson learned. You did well.”

“But I-“

“It doesn’t matter.” Ben cuts him off. “We survived. Now we have to do it again. Take us back up, and don’t hesitate. Just… don’t do _that_ , _specifically_ , again, _please_.” He asks, swallowing nausea. If he had to stand right now, he doesn’t think he’d be able, but his padawan really doesn’t need to know that, and so he lets none of it show nor leak through their bond.

Obi-Wan offers a wobbly, adrenaline ridden smile and lets out a shaky sigh. “Yes, master.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Glorious! Remarkable! Aw, did you _see_ me! I was magnificent. Astounding.” Hondo crows, swaggering down the ramp of his slightly worse for wear ship. “And of course, you helped.” He adds, patting Obi-Wan on the shoulder. “I don’t know about all that falling and spinning though – very distracting. But we survived! Good job!”

“Thanks.” Obi-Wan says dryly, eyeing his master, whose first task after landing had been to stagger outside the ship and vomit into a bush, insisting he was absolutely fine. Quinlan had sworn at and cursed Obi-Wan up one side and down the other before slinging him into a bone-crushing hug. Master Tholme had been remarkable cool about the entire affair, but Master Tholme had had a very dangerous career. He was unflappable in the face of danger. Romance, not so much. But certain death? Sure.

“Time for our spoils! Round up, yes, yes, you, come _here_.” Hondo orders his crew. “There are ships to be taking, hurry up!”

“Remember, Hondo, they surrendered. No killing.” Master Ben warns.

“No killing anyone who doesn’t make a good effort on killing me first.” Hondo counters, twirling emphatically to face him. “Be _reasonable_.” He pouts.

Ben sighs.

“Go, Jedi, go. Find your lost friend, eh? This is a good day!” Hondo waves them away with flapping hands, his kowakian monkey-lizard bouncing on his shoulder, pointing at them to leave. “I will be much richer when you return, yes? Go!”

“We’re going.” Master Ben nods, and then points a warning finger at Hondo. “If our ship isn’t in exactly the same condition when we return as it is now…”

“What?” Hondo crosses his arms. “You can’t threaten me. You are a Jedi! I promised, didn’t I? What do you take me for?” He pouts indignantly.

Obi-Wan steps over to his master and lays a hand on the man’s shoulder, offering Hondo a look. “A pirate.” Obi-Wan says simply, smiling, his bucket tucked under his arm. “Who _knows_ full well who gave me that ship.”

Hondo pauses, eyes narrowing, and then beams in delight, laughing. “He’s very good, Jedi! Be proud. _Ha_.” He cackles, turning back to his men and sauntering off. “Yes, yes, I know. Your ship will be fine!”

“I feel so reassured.” Tholme deadpans, and Quinlan snorts.

~*~

Ky Narec is…confused.

_Surely, I haven’t been here that long_? He thinks, resting the binocs on his knee, glancing over at his padawan, who was swinging her legs over the edge of the cliff-face, one hand shading her eyes as she scowled in concentration at the distant figures.

The ship was Mandalorian. The armor two of its occupants wore was _definitely_ Mandalorian. And that was, without a doubt, the Jedi sigil on their shoulders. He contemplates the possibility of the Jedi hiring Mandalorian protectors, but that’s…exceedingly unlikely. He checks again through the binocs, studying the two pairs. Side by side, it was almost funny how both looked like… Masters and padawans….

Ky blinks.

He’s not wrong. The style isn’t traditional, but those _are_ Jedi tunics under the armor, and… lightsabers. They were wearing lightsabers.

_Mandalorian_ Jedi? How in all ten hells did _that_ happen?

“Do you think they’re friendly, master?” Asajj asks, her voice low and a little hoarse, comforting in its familiarity.

“I think…” He replies. “We’re going to have to find that out.”

She’s excited. She’s getting better at masking her emotions - her eyes were _so_ expressive – but the result was she tended to scowl at everyone and everything. Which made the wellspring of eagerness she was putting off in the Force all the more incongruous and amusing.

“Come on, padawan. Help an old man climb down the mountain.” He says, pushing himself to his feet with a small grunt of effort, his back twinging in warning.

“Who’s climbing?” She challenges, eyes gleaming, a smile twitching at the edge of her mouth as she takes a lofty step towards the edge. “C’mon master, this will be quicker.”

Ky sighs. He has never quite understood her sheer delight in tossing herself off great heights, but then, if he hadn’t wanted her to use it, he shouldn’t have taught her how to jump and catch herself using the Force.

She stares him down, eyes big and soft and imploring, and Ky grumbles, because that isn’t fair.

“Lead the way, padawan.” He gestures. “Just don’t break a leg.”

“ _I’m_ not the one who couldn’t catch myself falling off one itty bitty cliff.”

“I didn’t just _fall_. I was kicked.” Ky reminds her dryly. “And that itty bitty cliff was a fifty foot drop onto razer rock.” It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had anywhere decent to _land_ , but the brittle stone had shattered beneath him, and sent him tumbling another twenty feet.

She shrugs, grins brightly, and steps back off the cliff with a whoop. He can’t quite stop the instinct to lurch forward and make sure she cleared the shelf, and he watches her bounce gracefully off the cliff wall, gaining clearance with a perfect Ataru flip that he could never have pulled off, even at her age. He smiles fondly, knowing she’ll be better some day than he ever was, and he couldn’t be more proud of her.

Taking a breath – another instinct he never quite shed, no matter how often he did this – Ky makes the leap.

~*~

“More than one.” Tholme says quietly, the four of them walking through a canyon, each keeping an eye on the cliff faces and crevasses. There wasn’t anywhere really to walk but through one canyon or another, the mountainous terrain well worn by people, though the area seemed to have been cleared out – likely in fear of the battle that had been raging overhead.

“Is there?” Naasade murmurs airily, and gets two identical unimpressed looks from Tholme and his padawan. The old watchman never did get a proper explanation as to how Master Ky Narec was connected to the Nightsisters of Dathomir, because Naasade was, in fact, a cagey bastard, and he was absolutely certain that the younger jedi knew far more than he admitted to _anyone_.

Tholme felt sorry for the man’s padawan.

It was easy enough to feel that there were two powerful Force Sensitives on the planet, one far outstripping the other, and that both of them were headed their way. “They definitely know we’re here.”

“I think it would be a little hard not to.” A voice calls out, a second after Quinlan tenses up beside Tholme, and they all look up, squinting towards the sun backing the sillouette. Ben and Tholme both turn the moment they realize the ploy, looking for whomever might be coming up behind them.

“Master Narec?” Obi-Wan inquires, waving a hand. Quinlan shoots him a dirty look, because this was clearly an ambush set-up, but the younger padawan ignored his perfectly good sense, reached up, and pulled off his helmet.

“If you get shot in the head, I’m not crying over it, you idiot.” Quinlan hisses.

“You’re not even wearing a helmet, so shut up.” Obi-Wan retorts, before tucking his helmet under his arm, and offering the figure on the ridge a bow. “Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He introduces himself.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Mandalorian Jedi.” The master calls down, and Tholme can feel that second presence out there, but he can’t pinpoint it. Ben’s quiet amusement, tinged with… _nostalgia_? Is not helping.

“No one has. Not in six hundred years.” Padawan Kenobi agrees, shrugging, which only emphasizes his green and silver armor. “We were adopted.”

“That sounds like a story.” Master Narec replies, still trying to get a feel for them, his presence like a charged, dry breeze in the Force, very much attuned to the world around them. Tholme doesn’t blame the man for his caution – there were plenty of Jedi Hunters out there, and many of them so often pretending to be friends.

“One I’m perfectly willing to tell, should your apprentice decide she _isn’t_ going to pounce on our heads.” Naasade calls up, turning to glance at the silhouette above them.

“I hate spoiling her fun.” Narec admits, sighing as he concedes that the trap is well and truly foiled. “Asajj!”

With a sulky grumble, a pale-skinned teenager with very pretty eyes peels out of the shadows of the cliff face above them and jumps down gracefully. Her master skids down as well, more stiff and wincing than her easy grace.

“Are you alright, Master Narec?” Padawan Kenobi asks.

“He’s in pain.” Quinlan comments, eyeing the man up and down like he might be interested in proving that statement. Obi-Wan gives the older padawan a level, steadying look, and Quinlan turns away with a grimace, kicking a rock.

Somehow, Tholme’s padawan still pouts the exact same way he did when he was _seven_. It’s one of the few things that tell him that Quinlan, in spite of all the changes the Dark Side brought to him, was still _Quinlan_.

“Now we’re all in the bottom of an ambush point.” Quinlan mutters sourly. “Great decision, there.”

“What’s _your_ problem?” The girl snaps, eyeing him up and down sharply.

“Would you _really_ like to know?” A sneer touches Quinlans face, eyes gleaming yellow as he takes a dangerous, languid step towards her, and Obi-Wan once again beats Tholme to the punch, lurching into Quinlan’s path and knocking into him with one shoulder, grabbing his hand. Quinlan growls in frustration, and Tholme can tell he squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand to the point of bruising, but the younger teen only winces. He doesn’t pull away.

She eyes them both suspiciously, and balks a little warily when Obi-Wan offers her one of those rather charming smiles he’s been developing. “Don’t mind him.” He says placatingly. “He’s just grumpy.”

Quinlan offers him an affronted look, but holds his tongue.

“Master Narec, I’m Master Ben Naasade, may I introduce Master Tholme, and his padawan Quinlan Vos. Obi-Wan is, as you may have guessed, _my_ padawan.” Naasade says politely, gesturing to each in turn.

“As you’re clearly aware of who I am,” The brown haired master says dryly. “ may I introduce my padawan, Asajj Ventress.”

She startles, and then bows abruptly before jerking upright, curiosity overtaking the wariness in her eyes as she studies them.

Naasade smiles tightly. “Well met, Padawan Ventress.”

“Uh…thanks.” She replies, confused. His expression pinches, and he turns back to her master, who looks a little pained at her manners.

They all glance at each other for a beat of awkwardness, and Quinlan crosses his arms. “You know, I don’t know why, but I thought this would be a lot harder than it was.”

“Quinlan _Vos_.” Naasade tosses a hand in exasperation. “Must you?”

The kiffar shrugs. “If it goes to hell, it goes to hell.”

“That sky fight didn’t look easy.” Padawan Ventress points out, crossing her arms. “That was some crazy flying. Does everybody fly like that? The raiders don’t.”

Tholme can’t help but join his companions in glancing at Obi-Wan, whose ears flush red.

“Only the very skilled and the very bold, and sometimes, the very foolish.” Naasade remarks, a praise and a reprimand.

“Can I learn to fly like that?” Padawan Ventress asks her master.

“By all the little gods, I hope not.” Her master replies.


	14. Chapter 14

“I can’t believe you actually worked with Weequay Raiders. That scum has been terrorizing this planet my entire life!” Asajj vents.

“I’m…not going to defend Hondo’s occupation nor morality, but he doesn’t usually operate in this region of space.” Padawan Kenobo explains. “So I can swear to you he’s not one of the ones terrorizing your people. We just needed him to _find_ this place, and then, well, after some negotiating and some promises, he decided that he wanted in on our... er… ‘adventure’.”

“Promises. With pirates.” She repeats incredulously. “That was stupid.”

“I’m not going to argue with that.” Padawan Kenobi shrugs, shooting a look at his master, who also shrugs. “We did what we had to do, padawan.” Master Naasade remarks.

“It’s not what we _did_ that I’m worried about. It’s that favor he’s holding and what he’s going to ask us to do in the _future_ that I’m worried about.” Padawan Kenobi retorts primly.

“That’s _my_ problem, isn’t it?” His master counters, just as primly. His padawan narrows his eyes at him and crosses his arms, but doesn’t argue further. Ky can definitely see the influence the two had on each other.

His guests are….interesting, to say the least. Mandalorian Jedi, two Jedi Trackers, and, if he’s not mistaken, that kiffar padawan was very much in the thrall of the Dark Side.

Which is why Ky might have been leading them in circles, rather than taking them directly back to his and Asajj’s humble little home, and judging by the quiet speculation he was seeing in the glances from the other two masters, they were well aware of it.

He just… wasn’t sure what to do. Wasn’t certain if he could trust any of them, and he didn’t want to risk his padawan and their home on a mistake made out of a desperate desire to return to the Temple. They _felt_ like Jedi – well, three out of four did, and they mostly _looked_ like Jedi, but…Two Mandalorians and a Darksider. That wasn’t a favorable conglomeration by any means.

“How did you know I was on Rattattak? I haven’t been able to make communications in years.” Truth be told, when he’d been shot down here, _he_ hadn’t know he was on Rattattak. The planet hadn’t been in his star charts. “Truth be told, I didn’t think anyone would still be actively looking for me.”

Without exception, the newcomers look to Master Naasade, who smiles politely, one of those gentle, trustworthy Jedi smiles that Ky never mastered and never liked being on the receiving end of.

“Through very unorthodox methods, the details of which I am not at liberty to share.” He says serenely.

Padawan Vos scoffs. “Sure, man.” He mutters. “That’s helpful and enlightening. Completely trustworthy thing to say.”

Master Tholme snorts quietly at his padawans grumbling.

Ky does not know what to do with that.

Master Naasade sighs.

Padawan Kenobi gives them all an appalled look for their behavior, and then turns to Ky with a purpose. “Master Narec, I understand we are not… a standard representation of the Jedi Order, and that you are in a vulnerable position here. What do you need from us in order to trust us? We really are trying to help you, though I won’t say we aren’t also here because we need your help in turn. Matters among the Jedi are… much changed, in the last few years.”

The boys earnestness burns in the Force, as does his master’s quiet pride and ticklish sheepishness, and that does more to convince him than anything else.

“I see.” Ky remarks, considering that. “Then perhaps you would not mind sharing a meal, and you can tell us more about these changes.” He offers, turning in the right direction for home and sharing a glance with Asajj. She considers their position and nods, agreeing with that decision.

~*~

“Master Se?”

Se’sanimma takes her hand away from her eyes, to find her little clan looking at her with great concern. She had only paused for a moment, surely, but she had had to pause in the middle of story time, and there…there was little hiding that, when she covered her eyes and winced. “Just a headache, little ones.” She says calmly, managing a smile.

Kai and Rees, her eldest initiates, glance at each other in a manner that tells her that her smile has not been convincing. “Master Se, maybe we could take a nap?” Rees asks, feigning a big stretch, the little cathar’s spotted fur ruffling. Se’sanimma can feel her smile turning more genuine, but a quiet ache also spreads through her chest.

It is not their task to look after _her_.

She had not come through her brush with _Temple’s Bane_ the worst, but she had not and likely would not ever fully recover. Her headaches persisted, as did a tingling numbness in her lekku which would upset her balance when she least expected it. Master B’una assured her that such symptoms were no reason to have her removed from her position as crechemaster, but she did not wonder if it would not be better for her charges. Her bouts were uncomfortable reminders of what they had all gone through, bringing back the uncertainty and fear that had so surrounded the outbreak.

Her healer had cautioned against making such decisions while she herself was still adjusting.

 _Jedi are terribly self-sacrificing and we get into all sorts of trouble that way_. Her healer had told her. _You are still learning to accept your new condition. Give them the chance to accept it too. It will be better for all of you. We get through these things_ together _, Se’Sanimma._

 _There is no through_ , she had countered. _This is permanent_.

 _If you want to debate technicality, go bother an archivist. You know what I meant. Take it or leave it_.

Her healer had not been impressed by her moodiness.

“Would anyone else like to take a nap?” Se’sanimma inquires. She receives several nods, and a few shrugs, and one raised tentacle. “Can we put up the stars if we take a nap?”

Several other initiates chimed in to add their support of that suggestion, and Se agrees easily. Some of the ExploraCorps tinkerers had built star projectors as a learning project and donated them to the creche. They had become very popular as nightlights during nap time, and the crechemasters were pleased with them as passive learning tools.

“Yes,” she says, massaging the numb end of one lekku, though she knows it will do her little good. “ we can put up the stars.”

~*~

Ben isn’t sure if he should tell his padawan to stop talking and give Master Narec a chance to _beathe_ – as the revelation on top of revelation appears to be a bit much for a man that’s been stranded in the Outer Rim for nearly a decade – or to just let him keep dishing out the summation of recent events, so Narec can deal with it all at once.

He decides not to decide, as Obi-Wan appears to have it all in hand. To be fair, Obi-Wan was the most approachable of their team, and Ben was very pleased with his padawan’s capability.

The stew had been flavorful but a little thin, and the state of the clothes and the house told him enough that Ky Narec and Asajj Ventress were getting by, but perhaps not necessarily _thriving_.

Truth be told, Padawan Ventress is difficult to look at. Her age falls somewhere between Obi-Wan and Quinlan’s – at least by appearance of her physical development - her skin is soft, unscarred and unmarked, her face still rounded with baby fat, and her eyes are so large and expressive. She’s young, and she’s innocent, headstrong and so very curious. She’s _happy_. Genuinely, truly happy, and something about it just makes it feel like he’s being stabbed in the gut. He managed to eat perhaps half a bowl, and add a few anecdotes and clarifications to his padawan’s storytelling, but eventually he had to excuse himself for some fresh air.

The day had been cool, a constant tug of breezes through the mountain passes, but stepping outside the warm abode the evening was heading rapidly towards outright _cold_ , stars beginning to appear in a darkening grey sky.

The sharp peaks and glittering, distant suns are beautiful, and Ben shivers. He _does not_ like this planet. Half of that is memory. He knows what happened here. To Master Narec. To Asajj Ventress. To himself. Half of it is the way Rattattak _feels_. The planet is riven with chaos, wrapped in violence and fear and conflict, and that is _too familiar_. It makes his blood burn in his veins, his muscles tense for a fight, his senses casting out for the enemy.

“The war is _over_.” He tells himself firmly.

 _You don’t know that yet. The war hasn’t begun_. His mind whispers. _That’s not the same thing_.

Ben takes a deep breath. _Count your senses, Ben_. _Count five things_. Ground yourself. Healer Kala had given him a more expedient trick to practice, when things weren’t good but weren’t panic-inducing.

One; something he can see.

“Stars. I can see stars.” He whispers to himself.

Two; something he can touch.

He reaches for the scraggily bush a step away from where he’s paused, overlooking another rocky bluff. It’s dry and brittle, and prickly. “Thorns.”

Three; something he can hear.

Obi-Wan is still talking, his voice drifting out the carved window, the entire dwelling shaped right from the natural stone of the canyon wall, the words indistinct but the sound familiar. Ben’s voice is hoarser than his padawans, but Ben’s little suggestions work less and less the more similar they get, and Obi-Wan is starting to sound just like him. “My padawan.”

He has to voice them. At least, according to his healer, the grounding exercise is more effective if he does.

Four; something he can smell.

“Dust.”

Five; Something he can taste. Ben licks his lips, because taste was always iffy – which is why it was last. Trying to find something you can taste took a bit more focus, and often that was enough to drag his thoughts away from whatever had been so… unsteadying.

“Broth.” He decides, though he is likely only imaging the taste because he thinks it _should_ be there.

Ben takes another deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before staring back out at the horizon.

Nothing’s changed, and his bones ache with charged anticipation for a battle that isn’t coming.

“Fuck.” He mutters cantankerously, and unclips his saber.


	15. Chapter 15

Ky excuses himself, once the tale is finished, and Asajj is digging in with questions, her curiosity inexhaustible, whereas he…

He feels as if he has heard too much.

The Order pulling away from the Senate, the catastrophic decline, the broad expansion and restructuring of apprenticeships and training, the decimation of the _Temple’s Bane_ , and some quieter, deadly threat against the Jedi that he had caught the implications of, but Asajj perhaps had not.

Padawan Kenobi knew more than he would admit about that. Ky could see it in the boy’s eyes, just as clearly as he could see the intense discipline in his frame and the brilliant potential of his budding power. Ky wasn’t so far gone from the Temple that he could mistake Padawan Kenobi for being typical of his peers. Asajj had had an incredible innate power from a very young age, but Kenobi had dedication, his connection to the Force nearly as honed as a Jedi Knights, at just sixteen. And his master…

Master Ben Naasade troubled him. Ky knew a spy when he saw one, and a soldier, and that master was both and something far more besides. Asajj may not think anything of it, but he knew that strange Jedi did not just slip out of the sky and instigate the greatest change to the Jedi Order in a thousand years as if it was ordinary to do so. Oh, it wasn’t outright said, but all the clues had been there.

Furthermore, the man was greatly unsettled. Ky didn’t miss the gleam of the medical tag he had seen when the other Jedi removed his armored gloves, but what bothered him far more was that Naasade seemed so troubled by _Asajj_.

But what harm could his padawan do to a Master of that caliber?

He didn’t like it, a fierce surge of protectiveness flooding his chest, and a fear.

He was grateful to be rescued, but Kenobi’s tale served as more of a warning than the boy himself perhaps knew; they were not here by _chance_. Ky Narec had a deep feeling that Naasade - who, by his own padawans telling, worked quietly, but in every action very _deliberately_ \- was here with a purpose, and he had a use for them that had yet to be revealed.

He intends to remove himself to the kitchen, but he catches sight of a flash of light through the window, and steps outside instead. Down the path, where the ledge widened into a proper platform, Naasade had his lightsaber out, moving through a Soresu form far more aggressive than Ky remembers ever having seen.

The grey eyed master watches for a few minutes, both to observe and to allow the man his own moment of quiet – it had been clear when he had stepped out that he was tense and on edge, and Ky has no interest in testing his nerves.

Much.

The lightsaber the man wields is interesting – copper, but with a shimmering hue around it that hints at violet, which is an interesting affect he’d like to ask about sometime. It’s a very nontraditional blade, the hilt a meld of metal and what looks like carved ivory, gleaming with edges of gold. A nontraditional blade for a nontraditional wielder, he supposes.

“Are you a seer, Master Naasade?” Ky inquires, walking down the path when a rest comes between two katas.

The other mast looks up, blue-grey eyes brighter now than the shadowed look he’d left with, the main focus of a face hid mostly by a trim beard and a fringe slipping loose of the half-tail he wore.

“Not in any way you’d recognize.” The man answers vaguely, but, perhaps, as honestly as he is able. “And the future is always in motion.”

“I know my proverbs.” Ky says dryly.

Ginger brows quirk. “They are, at times, more apt than we like to think. I suppose that’s why the sages chirp them so often and so smugly.”

“We find them annoying until we find them desperately true.” Ky sighs, indicating with a gesture that he’d like to join the other Jedi, who nods. Ky draws his saber, engaging it. Its blade isn’t as tuned as he’d like, the power cell weakening, but it’s been nearly a decade now since he had the proper equipment to care for it.

“That sounds like you’ve had the pleasure of experience.” Naasade says, politely lowering his saber to one side. “Which one hit you in the face?”

“Never become desperate enough to trust the untrustworthy.” Ky replies.

“Is that directed at me?”

“I hope not.” Ky answers, giving a testing swing of his saber to judge how willing his shoulders and back are for an exercise of sparring. “But it is a mistake I have made before, and it almost cost me my life and my padawans.” He nods at the other jedi, and Naasade steps into a Soresu guard stance. Ky falls into his Shii-Cho opening stance, and receives a surprised look.

“Jar’kai Shii-Cho?” Naasade remarks thoughtfully. “That would… that’s interesting. Not a standard form.”

Ky tries to ignore the fact that he could swear the other Jedi was about to say _that would explain a few things_ , because accepting that only leads to more questions he’s not sure he wants the evasively vague answers to.

“Standardization is for learning.” Ky says, testing the other jedi’s guard. The blades hit with a hum and bounce back away, not truly engaged. “But mastery cannot come from what is standard. Mastery comes from what one makes their own.”

“Well said.” Naasade backs up a step for a pause, and lowers the power on his blade, so as not to overwhelm Ky’s. He appreciates the thought, though it makes him wince. “I have some parts and tools on our ship if you’d like to upgrade that. Or build a new one. Or two.” The other master says. “I had a feeling we might need them.”

“A feeling.” Ky repeats, with a warning look. The other master shrugs unrepentantly. There was no coincidence in what he brought with him – none at all, and Ky Narec knows it.

There’s just nothing really to _do_ about it.

“Why are you here, Master Naasade, and what does it have to do with my padawan?” Ky tests his guard again, and both the blades sing, more alike in resistance. Naasade’s guard is a fluid thing, but forceful, and Ky misses his second blade as they clash, the skill of his opponent requiring more flexibility than his body wants to give at the moment, and he ends up switching saber hands more than once, which doesn’t even seem to phase the other master.

“Are you aware that she’s not Rattattaki?” Naasade inquires, grunting a little as Ky shunts down on his blade and slams the hilt of his saber into the younger jedi’s wrist.

“The hair was a clue.” Ky admits. She’d been bald as a child, like all the other Rattattaki, who bore similar chalk pale skin and bright eyes, but with puberty had come - in addition to other things - glossy, almost beetle-wing like locks, so dark a blue it was nearly black. The Rattattaki had been baffled by it, and Ky would have said she was a cross-human, but… well, _he_ was the only human they’d ever seen. In the scheme of things, the question had seemed insignificant.

“She’s a very close species – I believe they share a common ancestry – known as the Dathomiri.” Naasade says. “Taken from her clan as a child by a Siniteen slaver. Her sacrifice paid for their protection.” He nearly scoffs the last, and Ky agrees, imagining what kind of ‘protection’ that had to have been.

Then Ky frowns. “I thought Dathomiri were witches?”

Naasade waits.

“Oh.” Ky mutters, _Asajj was_... Naasade smirks, and shoves back against another strike, turning his blade as he did so and forcing Ky to turn and give ground. He turns his turn into a spin and sweeps low, forcing the other jedi to jump, and break his stance, before cutting sharply _up_. Naasade blocks with another jarring push-back, and Ky grits his teeth. Seven hells, but the shorter man was _strong_ , as well as fast. “And why is that so significant to you?” He asks, shunting off the other blade and gaining distance again. He doesn’t think he has the wherewithal right now to truly challenge a master of Soresu, so he takes a moment to contemplate how aggressive he wants to be, and how much complaint his body will give him in the morning.

“I need to pay the Nightsisters a visit. There is much I believe they could help us with, and it would be….prudent, to arrive with some incentive for their good will.”

Ky scowls. “Asajj is not a _bargaining chip_.” He says harshly, lowering his saber.

The other man looks baffled. “Of course not.” He retorts. “But she has a right to learn who she is, who her people are and what that means for her, and that can be beneficial to us. I am not blind to the fact that you _raised_ her, Master Narec. That she is more a child to you than a student – believe me, _I have been there_. But she was born with more paths before her than yours, and she deserves to make her choices willingly. Not simply choosing yours because the path you walk is the only one she knows.” There’s guilt in his voice at the last, and Ky doesn’t have to wonder how familiar Naasade is with making _that_ mistake.

Ky disengages his lightsaber, because it is a slap in the face, an admonishment, and a sympathy all at once, but it still makes him _angry_ , and he knows better than to spar in anger and risk doing more harm – to himself and others – than he means to.

Naasade’s assessing gaze, however, still looks him over as if Ky might attack the man, balance weighted just so, and Ky wonders when the other Jedi stopped trusting his fellows so much that he doesn’t even acknowledge the basic courtesy. Ky clips his lightsaber to his belt and crosses his arms, and after a beat, Naasade disengages the blade and does the same.

Ky does have enough presence of mind to feel a little guilty that their conversation seems to have stolen whatever ease the other Jedi stepped outside to find. But then, Naasade’s purpose here is hardly bringing _him_ any peace either.

“I will agree with taking her to Dathomir.” Ky sighs, a terrible tightness in his chest that he knows he should meditate on. Just this morning he was certain he’d never be forced to part with his padawan – with his… and now, now the possibility of her walking away from him was all too real. “But she and I have made a promise to the people of Rattattak. We aren’t leaving without seeing it through.” He warns.

The Mandalorian Jedi – and Ky still wants that story – smiles ruefully. “Let me guess – a free Rattattak?”

Ky nods wryly.” Does a Jedi promise anything less?”

He really, really doesn’t like the shadow that darkens the other mans gaze at what should have been a simple jest.


	16. Chapter 16

“ _Ugh_.”

Obi-Wan turns, to find Padawan Ventress looking down into her cup with a disgusted expression, and it takes him perhaps half a second to realize what happened. “That’s mine, you weren’t supposed to drink that.”

“You made it in my kettle. How was I supposed to know I wasn’t supposed to drink it? Jedi are supposed to encourage sharing.” She counters bluntly, dumping the rest of her cup back into the pot and fetching herself some water from the pitcher resting on a kitchen shelf. It’s decently made, hand crafted of clay, but with very child-like scribbles of mountains and trees on it in faded, chipping paint.

“I didn’t mean you weren’t allowed- it’s just that it’s medicinal.” Obi-Wan explains, rotating his wrist, which had stiffened up overnight.

“Are you sick?” She inquires, winter eyes widening a little as she looks him up and down, and then narrowing. “My master better not catch _anything_ from _you_.”

“No. It’s to help with pain.” He replies. “From an old injury.”

“You’re a teenager. You’re not old enough to have old injuries.” She says. Obi-Wan gives her a look, and her nose crinkles. “What happened?” She asks bluntly, shifting a little awkwardly in defensive embarrassment for her snappish demeanor.

“Padawan….” Master Narec sighs, shuffling into the kitchen, one hand rubbing his freshly shaven jaw, brushing stray clippings out of his trimmed goatee.

“My lightsaber blew up in my hand.” Obi-Wan replies, ignoring that the question _had_ been a little rude. He’d have lots of questions too if he was as isolated as they were.

Padawan Ventress looks to her Master, who looks at Obi-Wan in shock.

“Was that... during construction?” The master asks hesitantly.

“No.” Quinlan saunters in, eyes a murky yellow and very tired. He doesn’t look like he slept much at all if any last night. “He was sabotaged.” He says snidely, going right for the teapot and taking a swig. Obi-Wan just lets him, and Quinlan coughs and sputters as the dry, thick sap taste registers, setting the teapot down roughly and shuffling away with an unhappy grumble, giving it a dirty look.

“Sabotaged?” Master Narec and his padawan both repeat with the same sharp incredulity.

“It was an assassination attempt.”

“But how’d they get hold of your lightsaber?” Ventress asks him crossly. “A lightsaber is your _life_. If I had my own, no one would _ever_ -“

“Because our enemies are very clever.” Master Ben remarks, stepping in from outside with a frown for the topic of conversation. “And they have far more power and far more reach than we could have known.”

“Did you find who did it?” Master Narec inquires, the older, brown haired Jedi expressing concern.

The hard line of Master’s Ben’s mouth is answer enough, and the sharp glitter in his eyes a dangerous promise that makes Obi-Wan uneasy. Revenge was not the Jedi way.

Quinlan may not have slept well last night, but Obi-Wan’s master didn’t sleep at _all_ , slipping back outside once they were all settled and spending the hours meditating. Obi-Wan hadn’t liked it, but his master had been wary of dreams, and Obi-Wan couldn’t argue with that. His master was on edge, and had been from the moment they set down, and it made the padawan nervous.

They change the topic of conversation, and breakfast is leftovers of last nights stew. Obi-Wan didn’t make a full pot, but what remains of the gimmer tea he pours into his canteen, discussing poetry with his master as he manipulates his hand into the stretches the healer’s showed him. Quinlan and Tholme go outside for their morning warm-up, and Padawan Ventress does her chores very distractedly, trying to clean up and watch both of them, as if trying to memorize everything she sees. Her master smiles at her behind her back, making up for her lapses when Quinlan starts balancing on one palm, his body a disciplined statue suspended on his strength alone, one knee bent, his other arm outstretched, and then brought slowly back towards his core.

Obi-Wan and his friends have all joined Quinlan a few times through the kiffar’s exercises, and Obi-Wan feels a pang at the fact that he _knows_ his wrist wouldn’t support his weight like that right now. Not without the brace at least. Essja _had_ promised to work on incorporating a brace into his vambrace, the times Obi-Wan was willing to take the armor off and let him study it, but… well, Obi-Wan didn’t take the armor off if he didn’t have to, and Essja had a demanding job, and so little idle time. It’s irrational to dislike the brace, because it helps him, but it’s a signal of his weakness too, and he’s had other padawans target it in a spar, and every time they do it makes him angry.

It shouldn’t make him so angry. Going for an opponent’s weakness is the smart thing to do.

But, well, it was _his_ weakness.

The Jedi of Rattattak quietly collect their things – and Obi-Wan had heard them talking for hours last night, discussing leaving with them, and what they had promised to do first – and once they’ve returned, Master Ben looks them over and nods.

“Well then, shall we go make some very difficult introductions and attempt to overthrow a few warlords?” He inquires jovially. Obi-Wan narrows his eyes at his master’s back, because sometimes the man relished a skirmish just a little _too_ much.

They’d had enough conversations for Obi-Wan to know his master _despised_ war – and they’d seen enough conflict for Obi-Wan to know that even so, battle was intimately familiar to his Master, and that with that familiarity was almost… a comfort. It grieved the padawan deeply that for his master, there was nothing that brought him joy that didn’t also seem to bring him pain.

Not even Obi-Wan.

“When you put it like that…” Master Narec says dryly. “How could we refuse?”

~*~

“Wait wait wait _wait_. Wait.” Hondo exclaims, shaking his head and holding up his hand. Quinlan looks two seconds from snapping, and Obi-Wan is absently holding him by the elbow in case he chooses to lunge. “You want me, myself and _my_ crew, to _attack_ , without _provocation_ , all of those _formidable_ Siniteen strongholds. That is what you are asking, yes? Crazy. Insane. Absolutely unreasonable!”

“Like you _need_ provocation.” Padawan Ventress mutters, arms crossed, glaring daggers at any weequay who even looks like they might be thinking about getting close to her, her lightsaber hilt securely in her hand, as opposed to on a belt.

Naasade gestures a placating hand in her direction, not taking his gaze off the Ohnaka, and lifts an imperious brow Tholme is becoming too familiar with – a tick of an expression that says he _knows_ he _is_ going to get what he wants, knows he’s going to pay for it, and perfectly accepting of that fact. “What do you want, Hondo?” He inquires, in that lofty polite tone that matches the expression perfectly. “Surely there’s _something_ that could entice you to come to our aide.”

Tholme had watched these two dance around each other the last time, Naasade flatly refusing any payment the weequay pirate asked for – the weequay in question asking for exactly those things he knew the Jedi would _not_ give him – until they’d settled on Naasade’s offer of a one time, ask no questions blank favor that could be called in, so long as Hondo did not require of him anything that would break the Jedi Code. Even with that one condition, that kind of offer was a dangerous thing to give away.

That favor, and any spoils to be had from that firefight with the Raiders. Tholme, by the end of it, had gathered that Ohnaka loved nothing so much as the amusement he got from the negotiations, and that Naasade was perfectly well aware of that fact, and humoring him with precisely enough indulgence to get what he wanted.

Ohnaka’s eyes gleam, and he chuckles to himself, delighted to be playing the game again.

“Well, there is….no no no _no_ , I couldn’t possibly…except!” He waves an exuberant hand, and then quails again, as if deeply anguished. “ _Gah!_ \- it’s no use! _No_! I am saying no.”

Naasade waits, and Tholme gives him credit for his patience.

“ _Unless_ ….” The weequay trails along, eyes gleaming behind the ridiculous green tinted goggles he wore. There it is. “ You know, Jedi, that is… it has always been my dearest, deepest desire, to have my very own lightsaber!”

Well, at least he hadn’t asked for _their_ lightsabers this time.

Naasade sighs. “Hondo, as a friend, I could not possibly consider such a thing.”

“As a friend?” The weequay questions, and Naasade nods _very seriously_.

“I could provide you the necessary equipment, of course, and even assist you in its construction, however, I could _never_ admit to having done so. It would be a serious transgression, for a Jedi to do such a thing. Which would mean, of course, that your acquisition of a lightsaber would appear to have occurred by theft. I’m sure you are aware, but the theft of a lightsaber almost always accompanies the death of its wielder.”

“Tragically, this is so.” The Weequay agrees, nodding, but not quite seeing the point. Naasade’s lips twitch ruefully, just as much a play-actor as the pirate.

“Which would of course, give the appearance that you had _murdered_ a Jedi.”

“I would never!” The wueequay gasps, then considers it. “Or, well, perhaps if-“

Naasade continues. “Which would, of course, put…those of us who _deal_ with such crimes on your tail. You do _know_ , don’t you, what is _done_ to those who have murdered one of us?”

The pirate shudders in imagination, and Tholme has to refrain from snorting, because _revenge is not the Jedi way_.

“So you see, my _friend_ , how I could not possibly do such a thing.” Naasade finishes, the weequay nodding along before sputtering as he realizes what he has just agreed with.

“Surely, _anything_ else, Hondo?” Naasade queries, _oh_ so earnestly.

“I am thinking!”

“Boss.” Another pirate groans. “Working with Jedi? Again? That just isn’t done.”

“It is only by doing what isn’t done we get anything at all! We are _pirates_!” The captain snaps back, shooting his man a glare before turning back to the Jedi in contemplation, before starting to pace, his coat swishing about him. “I am _thinking_.” He repeats.

He paces a moment, and then twirls with a flourish, clapping his hands together. “Yes, alright, fine. I want the mines of Rattattak. This is my final offer! Take it! I am being most generous. This is altogether too much trouble, with all the fighting and the moving and the insolence. But you are a very profitable friend to have, _so_.” He grins, and Naasade considers this for a moment, before turning to Padawan Ventress. She blinks at him, and his expression sours a little with impatience.

“This is your world, Asajj Ventress.” He prompts her.

“Wait, this is up to me?” She protests, glancing instinctively to her master before looking back to Naasade. “I am not making a deal with raider scum!”

Naasade’s expression shutters exasperatedly, and he collects himself with a teachers patience. “Then we shall have to do with without them.” He does, however, glance to her master, and Ky Narec’s twist of a grimace tells him he is exactly aware of how diplomatic his padawan is _not_.

“We’re _Jedi_.” She retorts, her stance proud, her chin tipped up defiantly. “We can take on _anything_.”

“Such insult!” Ohnaka exclaims. “I am wounded!”

Naasade and Padawan Ventress stare each other down, and the cinnamon haired master finally nods. “So be it.”

Tholme has a sinking feeling about this, as surprised shock spreads across the girls face at her victory.

“Captain Ohnaka, it appears we will not be needing your services. I am afraid we cannot meet your conditions.” He says diplomatically, bowing in the weequay’s direction, while the pirate backpedals, arms falling to his sides.

“Wait, what? What is happening?”

“Master.” Obi-Wan steps away from Quinlan, a serious look of experience in his eyes, concern in his voice.

“This is not how I saw that going at all. Huh.” Ohnaka mutters. “Fine. We will be departing! Move, move, yes, you!” He twirls, rounding up his crew. “We are going. We are gone!”

Naasade offers a tight smile to his padawan, which does nothing to reassure, and in fact makes the teenager’s expression darken. “I don’t want this to turn into what happened with the _Kyr’stad_.” The boy says, and Tholme frowns, not understanding the word, or the implication. “That was… bad.”

“Yes, it was.” His master points out. “You nearly died.”

“And a lot of other people did die.” His padawan counters sharply. “The six of us against four strongholds?”

Naasade lays a hand on his padawans shoulder and squeezes. “We’ll figure something out, Obi-Wan. Trust me. Jedi have faced more insurmountable odds.”

His padawan still looks deeply troubled. “At what cost?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I swear, I am trying to get to Dathomir. I _want_ us to get to Dathomir.


	17. Chapter 17

“Information gathering is, in fact, a marvelous thing.” Quinlan saunters over to Obi-Wan with a grin and a gleam in his eyes, drawing down the hood he’d used to obscure himself with when he headed off with Master Tholme.

“That’s a word for you.” Obi-Wan smirks faintly, as Quinlan throws an arm around him. “I take it you found out something good?”

“I am, actually, you know, _good at my job_ , Obi-Wan.” Quinlan remarks, the arm around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck tightening painfully before Quinlan shrugs off the spike of anger. “Of course I found something good.”

“What is it?” Padawan Ventress inquires, her voice low and raspy and still somewhat strange, inciting him to tense before he recognized it.

“Something you could have mentioned.” Quinlan drawls, leaning his weight on his shorter companion. The dathomiri girl scowls at him, confused, winter eyes narrowing. Obi-Wan sighs, but decides not to bother shaking his friend off his shoulders.

“I don’t understand. We haven’t kept anything from you. Why would we?” Master Narec comments, standing at a nearby crate, going over schematics with Master Ben, all of them having waited in the cargo bay of the _Lighthawk_ while the two Jedi investigators went snooping around the nearest Stronghold settlement. Obi-Wan had shown Padawan Ventress the pilot controls and the turrets, and he has a feeling that the depth of what she did not know had rather bummed her out, dulling her excitement with anxiety.

But it was hardly her fault she didn’t know how to pilot. Their circumstances were what they were.

“He doesn’t mean it like that.” Master Tholme clarifies, trailing a little more slowly up the ramp behind his padawan. “It’s simply something I don’t think you considered.”

“Which would be?” Master Ben huffs, getting impatient. Obi-Wan eyes his master, prodding gently along their bond. A lack of sleep and whatever it was that so disturbed him about Rattattak were not doing his temperament any favors. His master wanted _off_ this planet, and Obi-Wan was worried that that _dread-urgency_ he was feeling might impact his judgement.

“Rattattak’s judicial system.” Quinlan drawls.

“Rattatak doesn’t have a judicial system.” Padawan Ventress counters. “The villages handle their own, and what the slavers do is _vile_ and -“

“What the slavers do,” Quinlan cuts her off, “ is Trial by Combat. Gladatorial death matches are how the Warlords keep their peace.”

“That…isn’t actually a judicial system.” Master Ben points out. “That’s blood sport.”

“That’s what they consider justice.” Quinlan shrugs, eyes twin rings of yellow and rather unaffected. “And the brutal beauty of it is this: _anyone_ can be challenged. Up to and including the Warlords themselves. They like to _prove_ themselves every once in awhile. It keeps any enterprising revolutionaries from getting too bold.”

“Is there a right of denial? Can’t they just refuse to fight?” Obi-Wan asks.

“No.” Padawan Ventress shakes her head. “If you’re issued a public challenge, you fight or you die. At least if you fight, you _might_ live. For the citizens, at least. If you’re a Warlord though… that level of cowardice is an invitation for the others to tear you apart.”

“I thought Siniteen were supposed to be highly intelligent.” Obi-Wan mutters. “That’s so…uncivilized.”

“Intelligence and brutality are not mutually exclusive conditions, Padawan Kenobi.” Master Narec says. “Great minds can do terrible things.”

Obi-Wan frowns at the durasteel plating in front of his feet, wondering how people, any people, could be so _cruel_. Wondering _why_. Burning at the unfairness of it. The injustice.

“I’m not sure that’s as helpful as you think it is, Padawan Vos.” Master Narec turns to Quinlan, who lifts a lazy brow. “It’s a _death match_. Surely the Jedi haven’t changed so much as to condone premeditated murder.”

“I could do it.” Quinlan drawls, earning an immediate chorus of “ _No_!”s. “I’m already Fallen, and we _all_ know the Jedi consider that a _far_ worse crime.”

Master Ben pinches his nose. “Quinlan Vos that is _not_ ….just… _no_.”

Quinlan scoffs, and Obi-Wan reaches up and pinches the underside of his arm. The kiffar yelps, turning on him in affront, and Obi-Wan gives him a _look_ , while also carefully threading calm through their bond. The kiffar makes a face, grumbling and crossing his arms. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Although…” Obi-Wan whips around at that hair-raising, thoughtful tone from his master, who had crossed his arms, idly stroking his beard with one hand. “How dead do they have to be, exactly?”

“I don’t like that question.” Obi-Wan informs his master.

“I don’t understand that question.” Padawan Ventress mutters. “Dead is dead.”

“Not necessarily.” The three masters reply in unison, which makes it so much worse. Quinlan snorts, but Obi-Wan and Padawan Ventress share a disgruntled look.

“Anyone not quite dead but too dead to fight usually gets a blaster bolt in the head to make sure, once they’ve been dragged out of the arena.” Master Narec informs them. “But that…could be an idea. But which of us…?”

Obi-Wan gives his master a _look_ , knowing before he even says it.

“I think the most reasonable choice would be me.” Master Ben volunteers.

~*~

“You know, the last time I was in an arena, I was chained to a pole and nearly eaten by a rabid Nexu.” His master comments, and Obi-Wan jerks sharply. “Actually… no, that was the second to last time. The last time I was in an Arena, ironically, I had been captured by slavers.” His master snorts. “It was not one of my better days.”

 _Does he_. Obi-Wan thinks vehemently. _Have to say these things. So casually. At exactly the most inopportune times_.

“That’s… awful, master, and not inspiring me to follow through with this plan.” Obi-Wan mutters. “Have you talked about this with Healer Kala?”

“Not in specifics, no.” His master shrugs. “But I can when we return, if you like.”

Obi-Wan stares at his master, hard. “I’m not sure that would be soon enough.” He says flatly. “Seeing as you are about to _actually enter another Arena_.”

“I’ll be fine.” His master reassures him, not very reassuringly. “There’s no one who can get hurt here besides myself.”

“That is not- no, okay, no. We’re switching places.” That was a terrible mentality to have, and his master was self-destructive enough as it was. Which was something he’d been told to watch out for.

“No.”

“ _Master_.” Obi-Wan growls.

“We are not deviating from the plan, Obi-Wan, simply because you are _worried_.” His master says firmly, crossing his arms. “Focus less on your anxieties.”

Obi-Wan sucks in a breath and grinds his teeth, pushing down his temper. He can feel his bond with Quinlan tighten, and the negative, frustrating build up bleeds off. He doesn’t think it’s exactly healthy, that Quinlan just sort of feeds off his more destructive emotions, but it’s certainly useful. Obi-Wan breathes in calm, and breathes out stress, letting himself settle, feeling just a bit more balanced as he leans into his connection with the kiffar padawan. His focus in the Light Side of the Force always felt so much more intense, the closer it was to Quinlan’s connection to the Dark Side, and everything seemed so…. stark and clear.

“Master,” Obi-Wan says more calmly. “I am concerned that you are not going into this situation at your best, and that the situation may trigger some of your stressors. It would compromise the mission if you have a flash-back and forget when and where you are and what we’re meant to be doing.”

It aches, to have to frame it so clinically, so functionally, when his real concern is for the man, and not the mission. He knows it’s not very Jedi of him to feel that way – the mission should come first, and his thoughts and feelings where too attached, if he couldn’t put their duty before all else, but…

 _‘Love isn’t a crime, Obi-Wan_.’ The thought tickles, quiet and prickly, and Obi-Wan shivers a little in surprise, because he and Quinlan usually can’t communicate that clearly, but, well, they _are_ leaning into each other pretty deeply right now.

 _People can do terrible things for love_. Obi-Wan sends back, focusing and hoping the other padawan gets the message. Hopefully, Obi-Wan isn’t shouting inside his friends skull.

 _‘And amazing things too_.’ How Quinlan can focus enough intent into his message to communicate a drawl… Obi-Wan shakes his head.

 _But how do you know which is which? Love is blinding, and that’s dangerous_.

 _‘Love is both selfless and selfish. It’s like the Force. You have to find a balance_.’

“I’m aware of my limitations, padawan.” Master Ben sighs. “But I promise you, I _can_ do this. Trust me, please.”

Obi-Wan looks into his master’s amber visor, enough intent coming off the older man that he can practically see the expression underneath, a serious look in grey-blue eyes, tinged with sadness and determination.

“I always trust you, Master Ben.” Obi-Wan says sincerely. “I just….” He sighs. “Worry. When we’re done here, will you meditate with me?”

He can sense a soft smile in the tilt of his master’s helmet. “When we’re done here, and we’re off this rock, I’m taking a _nap_.” He says good-humoredly. “But then yes, padawan, I’d very much like to meditate with you.”

“Yes, alright, nap first.” Obi-Wan agrees.

~*~

Much of their plan was relying on sleight of hand, so to speak. Posing as mercenaries was easy enough – their bekar’gam practically did the work for them, Master Narec and Padawan Ventress posing as servants of the Arena, to take care of their downed opponents, Quinlan holding back with the ship, in case they needed the big guns, and Tholme slipping discreetly in among the crowds, in case they needed more help on the ground.

But there was nothing subtle about issuing their challenge.

Blasting their way through the front gates of the stronghold had been loud and explosive and very, very attention grabbing. The Siniteen warlord had been all too eager to accept the challenge, and, well, when one warlord was challenged, the others always came to watch. It was good to know if your competition fell, and who would be taking their place.

Ben had surrendered his lightsaber to his padawan – first because he believed that outing himself as a jedi was sure to bring the entire Arena down on his head, and second because he would dearly hate to disappoint Obi-Wan, or himself, by doing what he had just sworn not to do. At least this way, he wouldn’t be accidentally forgetting himself and cutting someone in half.

Still, the Siniteen warlord was seven feet of solid muscle topped by a large, incredibly dense brain capable of making hyperspace calculations without the use of a computer, and while Ben was more than capable at hand-to-hand combat, his opponent looked like he’d easily snap him in two.

The dull noisy chattering roar of the crowd filling in makes him twitchy, and his blood is singing, his stomach clenching, his heart starting to pound with adrenalin, slow and steady as he calls on the Force. He clenches and unclenches a fist, feeling the muscles and tendons flex, and the phantom ache of broken and rebroken knuckles, the damage long ago erased.

The slaver grins, leering at him before turning and raising his arms, enticing the crowd to cheers and jeers and taunts. His heavily muscles arms are scarred from previous bouts, swirling tattoos making him meaner in appearance, more imposing, more recognizable.

“You’re going to regret your arrogance, mercenary.” The warlord sneers, turning back to him.

Ben cocks his head. He’s oft been touted as the master of a clever word, but he knows the potent value of silence too. He says nothing, and that dark gaze scours his impassive helmet fruitlessly. Heavy shoulders tense, and the Siniteen snorts angrily, working himself up.

Oh, such a shame they can’t see it – Ben smirks.


	18. Chapter 18

“You’re sulking.” Ky remarks, all but his eyes obscured by robes and hoods, over which he fidgeted with the stolen Arena Guard armor. It wasn’t the best put together presentation, but no one would pay any mind to a guard and a Rattattaki slave.

Asajj looks up at him, scowling with the intent to scowl, and shrugs a little guiltily. “I don’t like it, master. This is our planet. _We_ should be fighting for it, not some – some stranger. Are we even sure he’ll be the better fighter?” she grouses, hands clenched tightly and anger rolling off her, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed to feign meekness, to better fit the role she was expected to play.

“All his companions believe so, and I know he’d be better than me. Why, should we recall him so you two can have a challenge bout?” He teases her, and her nose crinkles as she glances away.

“No.” She admits. “But I still feel….”

Ky waits. His padawan is not the best at expressing herself, and he is not sure if that is merely a part of her personality – or a remnant or her early upbringing. Those are often awkward and distressing conversations to have, and neither of them are keen on them. If Asajj did not wish to discuss it, save in those fits of righteous temper she was prone to, he did not push her.

“… disappointed.” She says uncertainly, and then nods, confirming the words.

“Relying on others is not weakness, little one, nor is it failure.” Ky tells her, reaching over to nudge her chin with his thumb. “It’s just not something you’ve had much experience with. That will change.”

A lot would change, he realized. Much for the better, but he feared…

Well, they were selfish fears, and his burden to bear and overcome.

“Now then,” He says quietly, pausing by an armored gate connecting to the Arena, putting them into position to be the ones to clear out the ‘dead’. It had taken a few mind tricks to get where they needed to be, and to convince others to be elsewhere, but, well, it had _worked_. “ let’s pay attention, shall we? We’re about to see Master Naasade in action.”

She offers a small grin, and peers eagerly through the bars. Ky smiles fondly down at the top of her head, and then looks out into the Arena himself.

His padawan may feel disappointed, but looking at the mean bulk of Naasade’s opponent, Ky was a little relieved that he was _not_ the one standing in Naasade’s place. A bare-handed brawl was a younger man’s game.

~*~

Quinlan kicks his feet up on the co-pilots chair and scowls out the viewport at the ridge he’s parked behind, just out of sight of the settlement.

 _Stuck in the ship like some little kid_. He thinks angrily.

 _They don’t trust you_. A little whisper deep in his head, the one that sounds like him, but doesn’t sound like him.

 _Your thoughts can betray you_ is a lesson he understands better now than he ever did.

Quinlan snorts. He doesn’t know if he’s dissociative, or if the voice in his head really is… something else, but it’s both more distinct and easier to argue with, since he stopped wearing his mind ragged trying to tear free of the Well. He can’t tear free of the Well of the Dark Side, not with as anchored in his spirit as it is, tainted by the things he has locked away in his mind.

“If they didn’t trust me, they wouldn’t have given me the getaway ship.” Quinlan reasons. “After all, what would stop me from taking off and leaving them?”

A quiet, slinking lurk, cold and coiling and considerate.

 _What does_? The little whispers inquire, and Quinlan shudders, because that polite, needling curiosity was far, far more dangerous than the cruel, vindictive taunting.

Quinlan is under water, but he’s also no longer so far down he can’t see the light above him, and all he has to do is reach out a hand to feel the warmth seeping through, tied to Tholme, and Obi-Wan, and Aayla.

He smirks a bit, recalling his recent conversation. “Love, I suppose.” He drawls.

“ _Padawan_?”

“In need of rescue so soon, Master?” Quinlan drops his legs and leans over his comm, feeling that sly presence in his head recede. He’s tried to find it, before, curious to see if he could take hold of it and tear it out – the possibility of driving himself insane not quite enough incentive not to try - but it was always, always just out of reach. He didn’t know if that meant it really was something outside of himself…. Or if there really was that much of himself that he did not know, places inside he hadn’t been and couldn’t go.

That possibility had led to a very bad day.

“ _I’m fine_.” His master snorts. “ _Are you_?”

“In need of rescue?” Quinlan repeats. “Come on, master, I’m not _that_ bad.”

“ _Kuat_.” His master says flatly. “ _Malastare_. _Hapan_.”

“Hey man, I rescued _myself_ on that one!” Quinlan protests. He’d also gotten his master arrested - accidentally – but still.

Tholme chuckles over the comm, and Quinlan finds himself smiling, reaching up to feel the expression on his face. It felt good to smile, without that edge of malice that frightens even him sometimes.

“ _I thought you might be bored_.” His master admits. Quinlan furrows his brows, because it was hardly his master’s style to distract himself from a mission just to keep Quinlan from boredom – okay, that wasn’t exactly true, because Quinlan did tend to get himself in trouble when he was bored, but… “ _Do you want a recording of this_?” His master inquires.

“Of Naasade in a gladiator match?” Quinlan snorts. “Absolutely.”

“ _I thought as much_.” His master remarks, and after the crackle-snap of fidgeting with equipment, the holo-viewer kicks on. As investigators, they were issued high-grade communications equipment, to include long-range visual recording capabilities, and while it wasn’t exactly prudent to use them for entertainment purposes…Quinlan was hardly going to rat on his master about it.

“You’re the best.” Quinlan swears, watching as his master adjust the visual until it was more or less focused on Naasade and his towering opponent in the center of a wide, flat sand pit.

“ _So you say_.” Comes his master’s dry reply, and a brush of fond amusement through their bond.

~*~

Obi-Wan knows, for a fact, that his black-to-white and shining silver tunics, under his green and silver _beskar’gam_ , are blatantly inconspicuous. He’s used to drawing attention. So he knows, without doubt, that his shields are working, when he can slip through a crowd and not earn a single glance. He can hear a gong chime, and can’t resist the urge to look when the fight starts, but all he catches in a glimpse between two jostling bodies is his master and the Siniteen sizing each other up, and the massive screen above the Arena shows the same.

Dragging his attention back on task, Obi-Wan turns his focus back to the crowds, and the four screened boxes reserved for the warlords.

His master had everyone’s attention, and Tholme was there to step in if things got tricky, but Obi-Wan’s assignment was to keep an eye on the other warlords, and make sure no one tried to slip away once they caught on to the fact that today… was _not_ going to be their day.

‘ _Have you ever fought a seer, padawan_?’ His master nudges his mind, and Obi-Wan pauses, and almost gets trampled by a pair of distracted Siniteen youths.

‘ _No_.’ Obi-Wan replies.

‘ _Well, it is not_ -‘ His master’s focus wavers and on the screen, he can see his master duck and roll. ‘ – _unlike fighting an opponent perfectly capable of calculating moves and countermoves in the span of time it takes me to twitch a muscle_.’

Obi-Wan worries his lip. ‘ _Are you struggling_?’

‘ _Padawan_.’ His master remarks. ‘ _Unlike you, I_ have _fought seers before. Don’t fret_.’

‘ _I’m not fretting_.’ Obi-Wan sends back grumpily. ‘ _I assume there’s a trick to it_?’ It would be very much like his master to use a very critical altercation in the midst of a mission as an anecdotal teaching point. ‘ _Something like – be unpredictable_?’

‘ _You cannot be unpredictable to those who can predict all_.’ His master replies. ‘ _So do not try. It is a waste of effort, and often more confusing to yourself than anyone else._ ’

‘ _So what do you do_?’

‘ _Be deliberate, and be precise_.’ His master replies. ‘ _All the foresight in the galaxy cannot help you if there is simply nothing you can do to stop or avoid what you see coming_.’

Obi-Wan can see his master rock back to his feet, and the Siniteen lurches, bringing a heavy arm up to block, balance shifting to dodge – but Master Ben is simply _faster_.

‘ _Some things are simply… inevitable_.’

An armored fist slams into the joint of the warlords shoulder, and then wraps around the inside of his elbow. Obi-Wan’s master steps on the Siniteens boot, and yanks back, and even though he can’t hear the sickening pop it makes, he is flinches when the arm dislocates and dislocates _badly_. The warlord roars, and Obi-Wan clenches a fist as the enraged Siniteen batters his master with his good arm, manages to grab him by the underside edge of his helmet, and fling him down into the dirt. His master rolls, helmet coming off, and just barely keeps ahead of the boot prepared to come down on his ribs.

‘ _Are we entertaining everyone yet_?’ Master Ben sends, darting to his feet with a Force-assisted push, smirking at his opponent, inciting him to further anger.

Obi-Wan sighs. ‘ _Yes, master. You certainly have their attention_.’


	19. Chapter 19

Ben lands on his ass in the sand and he barely manages to catch his opponent in the stomach with a kick, flinging them up and over him, in time to avoid having his head split open.

His first opponent had been felled by their own arrogance. The second, well, had not expected Ben to put up such a fight twice in a row. The third had clearly figured out that this day was not going in their favor, and she had pulled a spiked club from her boot and was doing her level best to bury it in his skull. She’d already caught him in the side with it, and he does believe she’d cracked one of his ribs.

He rolls and pushes back to his feet, staring his opponent down. Her face is twisted into a snarl beneath her enlarged cranium, and her balance shifts back and forth. She has less mass than the previous two Warlords, but she is by far much better at making use of it.

Ben’s been playing it cautious about not using the Force too obviously, uncertain as to whether or not that would turn the very crowded stadium against him. A one on one brawl is a simple thing, but surviving a hail of blaster-fire raining down on his head?

No. He’s seen how well that ends.

But there is a technique he and his padawan have been trying to teach themselves, to enhance the physical capabilities of their bodies with the Force. A technique they witnessed in the Nebula. It’s difficult to maintain, but it’s kept him on his feet so far, with increased flashes of strength and durability. Trying to do that while also attempting to wear away at his opponents mental resistance – that was especially difficult, but Sinisteen were not easily swayed by mind tricks, and putting someone in a death-like trance was no simple suggestion.

Ben shifts his balance, her eyes locked on his, and she sways in tandem, breathing hard.

Her eyes narrow. “Who _are_ you?” She demands.

He offers her a wolfish grin, preparing himself for her next charge, when a lance of _surprise-pain_ makes him jerk, his attention swinging up towards his padawan-

She slams into him, hard, and he catches her club across the side of his face, splitting skin and bruising bone, which is-

Hitting the ground with her weight on top of him is a grinding crush, and instinct kicks in, throwing her off with the Force. He rolls, trying to wheeze in air, and finds himself fortuitously close to his helmet. He grasps for it, dragging it towards himself as she charges again, a pounding charge of weight and fury. He forces his lungs to gasp, to take in air, his legs to pick himself up, and he turns and swings.

The beskar helmet strikes her right in the side of the skull, and the juggernaut crumples, stumbling down to her hands and knees and fighting for consciousness. And losing, as she collapses into the sand.

Ben bends over his knees, gasping, and has to clutch his rib before he can make the pain go away again. He looks up at the riotous, shocked crowd, who had just seen what they believed to be titans fall, to _one_ man, and reaches out for his padawan.

‘ _Busy_!’ Obi-Wan throws his way, and Ben winces.

~*~

Obi-Wan did not mean to _shout_ at his master, but, well-

The last of the warlords had seen his fate before him and meant to escape it. He’d left his seat of honor, barking at his slaves to ready his transport, and found himself face to face with a waiting Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan had planned to merely obstruct him – and he had, if the heavy, abrupt punch to his chest-plate meant anything. He’d been knocked back into a pillar, helmet cracking back against the stone, and seen the looming figure come for him.

Not good.

Obi-Wan jumps to his feet just in time to duck and dive under the Siniteen’s arm, hitting the ground in a roll and coming back up with his saber in hand, a drumbeat sounding in his bones as he engages the jade blade, whispers tickling at his senses, sharpening his focus, smoothing out his unsteadiness. The blade sings, and the Siniteen’s eyes widen.

“ _Jedi_!” the warlord booms the accusation.

“Guilty as charged.” Obi-Wan declares, and straightens his posture, pointing his blade at his enemy. “And I declare a challenge.”

The Siniteen barks a laugh, draws a blaster, and fires.

Obi-Wan deflects the shots to sky and stone, which is _younglings play_ , and slowly steps forward, watching his enemy gives ground at his advance, firing wildly.

Obi-Wan smirks, only to freeze with dread when the slaver grabs one of his slaves, an underfed Rattattaki man, and puts the blaster to his head.

“Predictable, jedi.” The Warlord sneers.

Obi-Wan lowers his blade and lifts his chin. “So what?” He demands, drawing his shields around the Rattattaki man and shoving the Siniteen with the Force. He stumbles back, hits the viewing barricade, and topples over the edge, falling to the sands below. Obi-Wan moves to follow, but pauses, checking on the man who’d been taken hostage.

The Rattattaki won’t look him in the face, and he’s not scared or shocked numb, he is just… _defeated_ , and Obi-Wan swallows against a lump in his throat, because he’s never felt anyone so utterly without hope before. Slowly, he reaches out and carefully slides his hand under the chalk-pale one of the other man, not squeezing, not really even holding, just letting the other mans palm rest over his own. The way Shmi had told him slaves reached for each other in dark pits on strange worlds, needing to know not all was lost.

Startled fingers twitch, but the other man does not look up, does not move, and Obi-Wan is needed elsewhere. Still, he does not _want_ to move away. “Do you have a name?” Obi-Wan asks softly, hoping for an answer.

“Cur.” The Rattattaki man whispers.

Obi-Wan swallows anger and sadness, his grip on his lightsaber tightening. “Is that – the name your master gave you?”

A nod.

“That is not who you are.” Obi-Wan tells him, wishing he could do more. There is a brush of warmth between their hands, and when he moves away, that’s all it will be. A brush, quickly faded.

“My name is Obi-Wan.” Obi-Wan offers. “I promise you that Rattattak is going to be a free world. And you are going to be a free man. You are a person. You can choose your own name, and no one can take that from you.”

It doesn’t take the Force to tell him that the Rattattaki man does not believe him, but Obi-Wan _must_ follow the Siniteen he may have accidentally just dropped on his master. He gently pulls his hand away, steps up to the barrier, and vaults himself over it, dropping to the sand below.

~*~

“Trouble.” Assaj growls, and darts into the Arena.

“ _Asajj_!” Her master calls after her, before sighing and following with a slight groan of effort – the Guard Armor he was wearing was _heavy_.

 _I’m not just going to stand by while someone else fights for my people_. She thinks fiercely, running up to give Master Naasade an assist in standing, when he staggers a little trying to straighten and face the enraged Siniteen picking himself up from a nasty fall. Blood streams down one side of the Jedi Master’s face, and he leans into the grip he gets on her shoulder before taking a few deeper breathes, readying himself to stand on his own.

They both feel the warning in the Force, and Asajj yelps as she gets shoved down, blaster bolts flying right where her face had been.

“Thanks, Master.” She wheezes, drawing her saber as quickly as she can and deflecting the next volley of shots.

Master Naasade gives her an odd look before snapping his jaw shut on whatever he had been about to say. He nods instead, and steps back into the shadow of her guard as the Siniteen charges them, still firing.

Asajj glares her enemy down, grinding her jaw, thinking _finally_.

Master Ky joins her, stepping up to her side with an approving look as they move seamlessly together, as a single, cohesive unit. The Warlord roars, and Asajj glances at her master, because he isn’t _stopping_.

 _He isn’t going to just run into our lightsabers, is he_? She thinks incredulously. It’s not the stupidest thing she’ll have ever seen one of them do, but…

A hand touches the topside of her shoulder, Master Naasade’s, and he lifts his other, and Asajj regrets, a little, that she doesn’t get the chance to cut the Siniteen down, as the Warlord goes flying back.

“Oops.” Naasade mutters, as his padawan leaps down from the stands and immediately has to jump out of the way in alarm. She can practically feel the outraged look he offers his master in the turn of his helmet, and Master Naasade winces apologetically.

The deep green blade of his lightsaber levels at the Siniteen’s throat, and the Warlord tenses, freezing. “Surrender.” Padawan Kenobi calls out, his voice carrying for the crowd to hear, all of them on their feet and shouting, a tide of _confusion-anger-glee_.

 _He won’t_. Asajj thinks, as the Siniteen sweeps a hand out, throwing sand and raising his blaster, and Padawan Kenobi moves, flicker quick, and disarms him – literally. The warlord _screams_.

 _Good_. Asajj thinks vindictively. _He should suffer_.

It’s not a very Jedi thought, and she feels guilty for it immediately, but she _hates_ them.

A blaster bolt strikes the sand, just barely scraping Padawan Kenobi’s armor as he dodges out of the way. “Death to the Jedi!” Someone hollers, an anonymous entity among thousands of others in the stands.

“Oh dear.” Master Ky remarks, and Master Naasade sighs grimly.

“I was trying to avoid this.” The Mandalorian Jedi mutters.

The Force screams in warning, and Asajj panics, because they are too exposed, and there are too many, as more shots are fired, and _what am I supposed to do I don’t want to die like this I swore I wouldn’t die like_ -

“SAND!” Padawan Kenobi shouts, and if he’d been in reach, Asajj would have hit him, because how _stupid_ can someone’s last word be-

“Ah.” Master Naasade utters, and Asajj feels a ripple of power slides past her, and she looks back in shock and alarm, reaching instinctively for her master in the Force, because what-

Blaster bolts - badly aimed - start hailing down, and the ground starts – _rising_.

No, not the ground.

She isn’t moving with it – the _sand_ , churning and swirling and drawing up, and she turns wide eyes on the other Jedi, Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi both with their heads turned down, their palms lifted out and turning up, and the entire arena starts to shadow, blaster bolts sizzling through obscuring grains, and raining down as molten glass, being caught in small tornado-like swirls and being cast safely away from hitting any of them.

“ _Move_.” Her master barks, giving her shoulder a shove.

 _But look at what they’re doing_! Her mind shrieks, but her body obeys, falling into step with his run, grabbing his arm because the sand dims the world to near blackness, and she knows he can’t see as well as she can in the dark, and she _will not_ lose him.

“What about them!” Asajj shouts, practically slamming into the Arena wall and searching for an exit, feeling trapped, her senses still lit like lightning in her veins, warning her this-way, that-way, keeping her just ahead of the plasma fire than strikes through the sand-haze above them, sizzling into the ground

“Find the exit.” Her master barks, panting as he leans briefly into the wall. “I’m not worried about them.” He huffs, hand squeezing her shoulder, as she meets his eyes in the dark of shadows. “I think they’re better at this than we are.” He says with a tight, reassuring smile.


	20. Chapter 20

“Master?” Quinlan barks into his comm, already bringing the _Lighthawk_ into the air. “Master? _Tholme_!”

He can see the dark cloud shrouding the Arena the moment he clears the ridge, but he’d lost sight of everyone on the communicators the moment blaster shots had started going off, and his Master _wasn’t_ responding.

“ _I’ve got Narec and Ventress_.” Tholme finally reports in, and Quinlan shudders, feeling the vise-like grip around his lungs loosen in relief. _He can’t leave me. I can’t lose him_. “We’re heading to rendezvous.”

“Obi-Wan? Ben?” Quinlan asks.

“ _Busy_.” Master Naasade says curtly, his end of the comm crackling and popping with extra sound.

“Busy.” Quinlan repeats snidely.

“ _They’re bringing the kriffing arena down_.” Tholme mutters, and Quinlan pulls back at that. What? What does he mean-

Oh.

Quinlan gets above the Arena, and he can see people streaming out, bolting away from it. It’s not falling to pieces, the way he might have expected, but the sandstorm they’ve whipped up is shattering glass and transparisteel, shredding banners, snapping barricades. A lot of flashy, dire threat, but not a lot of actual harm.

 _Ben does not like Arenas_. Quinlan recalls, one of those little facts he just knows but can’t really remember _why_. Like the way he knows he _knew_ Ventress, and he has some idea of who and what she had been, but it comes to him like something second-hand, all the details blurred away.

Quinlan can feel the fear and anger rise up from below him, so many people in a shocked panic, in an outrage, swearing revenge. It presses against his skin and sinks in, and he lets it, soaking in it for just a minute, letting it turn into a thick, dark thrill in his bones. He knows Ben and Obi-Wan are waiting for the people to be clear of the Arena, to be out of harms way, because they are _soft_. These people, these wretched, greedy, violent _slavers_ , they don’t deserve their mercy. Being crushed in the rubble of the very epitome of their barbaric cruelty would only be _justice_.

Quinlan shies when he can feel Obi-Wan’s attention catch on that idea, and push back.

‘ _Perhaps they would deserve it, Que_.’ Obi-Wan sends, with a flash of anger and grief for all the beings who had suffered at the slavers hands. ‘ _But do I_?’ He asks, and Quinlan can feel the horror the other padawan feels at the idea of being the hand to serve that brand of justice, to lash out without care, to pour more suffering unto an already suffering world.

‘ _No_.’ Quinlan insists, because Obi-Wan is _good_. Because he is bright and compassionate and the closest friend Quinlan has, and he doesn’t want to see that light dim and turn cold.

The people are clear, and Quinlan acknowledges that in the crowd are slaver and slave alike.

He can’t see Ben and Obi-Wan, under the sandstorm, but he can feel their focus and their power turn and wheel, and one side of the Arena starts to collapses as they tear into its foundations, shattering them with the Force and drawing the rubble down towards the center.

“ _This was_ not _the plan_.” Master Tholme grumbles. “ _Quinlan, are you coming down or do you expect us to grow wings_?”

Quinlan grins, and turns the _Lighthawk_ into a landing descent. “Oh, you know, Master. Just enjoying the view.”

~*~

“Ha, aha ha, oh, my little Jedi friends!” Hondo Ohnaka _beams_.

“ _What_.” Tholme swears below his breath, coming to a halt just inside the gates of the stronghold.

“You did not think Hondo was just going to _leave_ , now did you? No!” The pirate cheers, lounging on silk cushions on the steps to the stronghold, platters of random foodstuffs and bottles arrayed around him, a too-large silk garment draped around his shoulders, over his red coat. “You see,” He grins, tapping a temple. “I had a _grand_ idea! I thought to myself, ‘why Hondo, the most magnificent pirate that you are, surely you cannot simply abandon your poor, overwhelmed Jedi friends, now can you?’ and then I thought; ‘No! Of course not!’”

Ben has a hand laid over his face, shoulders sunk in resignation, and Obi-Wan crosses his arms, eyeing the pirate up and down and then the plasma scoring on the high walls, and the smoke trailing out of the roof.

“So, while you were very dashingly providing a distraction, and all those mean, dreadful Siniteen were out, I took it upon myself to seize their strongholds, and thus we achieved victory!” He crows, raising his hands for dramatic effect. “You may applaud my brilliance.” He tells them, urging them to do so. The other pirates cheer, some of them very long-sufferingly, and a good many of them so far into their cups they likely had no idea what had just come out of their captain’s mouth, but it seemed like a good idea to play along.

Ben lowers his hand to reply, only to pause as Ventress stomps past her master and raises her saber at the pirate. “We did not overthrow Warlords just to see them replaced by you!” She spits. “Rattattak belongs to her people.”

Master Narec had discussed with them that while the Rattattaki did not have a presentable fighting force, any congregation of their people or of the other native species, the Trogodiles, being an invitation for attack by the Siniteen, they were ready and willing to do what was necessary should the chance arise that they could rid themselves of the slavers and mercenaries that had taken hold of their small world.

The jedi were merely intent to ensure they got the very best chance to do so. Furthermore, Ben had registered Rattattak for follow up by the EduCorps and JudaCorps, to help them properly reform a local system of governance, and Tholme had put in recommendation for the possibility of an _official_ Watchman posting, if the locals were amenable, to deter recurring attempts by raiders and mercenaries to subjugate the planet, whose few resources were valuable and whose people were underdeveloped, hindering their ability to defend themselves.

“Now now now now _now_ , do not be _hasty_ -“

“ _Hondo_.” Ben says warningly.

“Bagh, fine. Yes. We are not staying. Terribly cold place anyways.” The pirate grumbles sulkily. “I have little interest in ruling your little world, it is very far from home. But you could show a little more _appreciation_.”

“You do have our gratitude.” Ben placates. “And anything you can take from these strongholds, by all means.” Ben says, over Ventress’s hiss of protest, silenced by a raised hand. “So long as you also take with you -“

“Oh no no no no, no! We are not doing this again-!”

“ – the Siniteen slavers we’ve captured.” Ben finishes gamely, hands folded together, such a nice, friendly smile on his face. “I’m sure you’ll find a ransom for them somewhere.”

“We are pirates, not prisoner transports!” Hondo protests, gesticulating wildly.

“Please, Captain Ohnaka.” Ben adds, trying his best to look very entreating. “To leave them here would only invite them to rebuild their slavers haven here on Rattattak. You swore to me once – quite vehemently – that you did not look kindly on slavery.”

“This is jedi trickery!” Hondo scowls, pushing himself to his feet. “We are not even getting _paid_.”

“You’ve taken quite the sum of spoils.” Ben points out, gesturing to his well laden crew, and the shiny Siniteen ships parked next to the Weequay saucers. “Or has our relationship not been profitable? I must say, it would grieve me to hear it.”

“You – you – you are ridiculous. Fine!” The weequay stomps. “Though I may just shoot half of them. It would make me feel much better.”

“I’d never deal with you again.” Ben and Obi-Wan say together, and the weequay pirate gives them a mutinously peeved look. Obi-Wan grins, and Ben kicks his padawan ankle for it.

“You are infuriating. I should listen to my crew - dealing with jedi is no good.” Hondo gestures sharply with his arms in denial, and Ben smiles very companionably at him. “Bad for business.”

“But think, my friend.” Ben says leadingly. “About how excellent it is for your reputation. After all, what other pirate took on _four_ Siniteen Warlords and won?” Ben suggests.

Hondo’s eyes widen, expression lighting up. “Oh, ho, I see.” He claps his hands together. “Yes, that is good! Very good, jedi. Ha! Hondo Ohnaka and his crew are above and beyond!” He crows.

“Just so.” Ben agrees, and bows.

Ventress, who has lowered her saber and watched them both play out their absurdity with a lowering jaw, gives him an appalled look, and Ben shrugs as he straightens.

“If it makes you feel better.” Ben offers. “We can blow the buildings up when the pirates leave.”

Her eyes light up, and her master steps in hurriedly. “That is _not_ appropriate.” Narec chides.

“But, _master_!” Ventress pleads.

“That _isn’t_ appropriate.” Obi-Wan chides, stepping over to bump his master’s elbow.

Ben lifts a brow. “It would lessen the enticement for some other ill-intent cohort to settle here.”

“It’s still excessive property destruction.” Obi-Wan counters. “We _already_ collapsed the Arena.”

“The conduct clause for excessive property destruction, padawan, refers to culturally significant, economically pertinent, and infrastructurally critical sites, monuments, and structures. And judging by the look on Padawan Ventress’s face… I’d say the Rattattaki might rather _enjoy_ tearing them down.” Ben remarks.

“Then that’s their decision to make, master.” Obi-Wan insists. “We still have to report this to the Council and I can _imagine_ the _look_ on Master Windu’s face.” His expression twists a little, grimacing.

“Obi-Wan, we’ve ousted slavers from a subjugated world. That’s hardly cause for reprimand.” Ben laughs. Mace would surely be amused that his dire expressions were a sure deterrent for keeping padawan’s in check.

His padawan gives him a _look_ , and Ben shakes his head. “We’ll leave it up to the Rattattaki.” He promises, certain that the Rattattaki and Asajj Ventress will be of a like mind on the subject.

And on that point, they prove him absolutely correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Just hit _half a million_ words!!!!!! 
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .  
> And we _still_ haven't made it to Dathomir.


	21. Chapter 21

Ben jerks awake in a cold sweat, hand clamping around the wrist attached to the hand that had just brushed his shoulder-

“Ow!” Obi-Wan flinches, but knows instinctively not to try and yank back from that hold. Ben releases him immediately, sitting up with a self-reprimanding flash of guilt. “Padawan, I’m so-“

“You were having a nightmare.” Obi-Wan says simply. “Don’t worry about it, master.”

Ben _is_ going to worry about it. That had been Obi-Wan’s bad wrist. “That’s no excuse. I hurt you.”

“You didn’t know it was me.” Obi-Wan points out, and pushes his shoulder until Ben is lying down again, pressed up against the bulkhead, and Obi-Wan can wedge himself in beside him. Ben lets himself be jostled without complaint, though his knitted rib twinges in protest.

“I should have.” Ben replies. Even sleeping, he should have recognized his padawan’s presence.

Obi-Wan sighs noisily, manhandling Ben’s arm and a pillow until they are arranged somewhat comfortably, Obi-Wan’s back to his master’s side, Ben’s arm under the corner of the pillow under his cheek.

 _That’s going to go numb_ , Ben thinks absently, but doesn’t move, not even to itch the remnants of a batca patch off his face. Obi-Wan was rather a bit smaller, the last time he did this, as if his presence could protect Ben from his bad dreams.

There were few in the galaxy he trusted so close to his person, and the older man could admit that such comforting closeness did seem to help.

“Will you tell me?” Obi-Wan asks, looking at the opposite wall, while Ben stared at the bottom of the bunk above his.

“About my nightmare?”

“No.” Obi-Wan shuffles a bit, and Ben tosses a leg over his padawans wandering, _cold_ feet. Obi-Wan makes a disgruntled sound, but stills. “I got a bit of the dream.” He says, and Ben winces. It distresses him greatly, some of the things Obi-Wan might oversee. “Are you going to tell me what this mission is really about?”

And perhaps it isn’t what his very intelligent, very perceptive padawan sees in his dreams that he should be so worried about.

“The Nightsisters of Dathomir may be able to help us in dealing with the Sith, if we can earn their favor and their trust.” Ben confesses with a puff of air. “I have hopes that they may also be able to help Quinlan deal with the Darkness inside him.” 

“Okay.” Obi-Wan replies simply, and Ben feels… guilty for the inadequacy of what little he tells his padawan, who trusts him in spite of it.

The metal wall beside him leeches warmth from his undertunics and his skin, but his padawan radiates heat against his side, and Ben is caught in between, a single steady line of balancing entropy.

“Master.” Obi-Wan says, so quietly Ben barely hears him. “We freed a world yesterday.”

“We did.” Ben smiles faintly.

“Did we do that only because you had to in order to get Padawan Ventress to go with us, and you needed her to go with us because she’s Dathomiri, and you’re hoping that with her you’ll be able to gain the favor of the Nightsisters?” Obi-Wan asks, muscles tensing rigidly.

Ben’s throat goes dry, as his padawans tremulous question sinks in, and the truth of it is so painfully simple in hindsight; Yes.

Ben closes his eyes, a sinking feeling in his chest, a self-loathing. For all his hopes for the future, for Obi-Wan, for Anakin, and all the changes they’ll bring, he himself has just proven to be true to a failed generation of Jedi.

 _I rescued a master who had been stranded ten years and freed a world yesterday_ , he thinks bitterly _. I had the knowledge and power to do so, and I only did it because it suited_ my _needs_.

They did the right thing – neither of them question that. But Obi-Wan isn’t wrong to question is reasoning either.

Ben can feel Obi-Wan edge around Ben’s emotions in the Force, gently plying at them with sorrow, and with a forgiveness Ben doesn’t think he deserves.

His padawan is kind, and good, and uncompromising, when he needs to be.

Ben struggles to remember when last he could truly claim to be wholly any of those things, and he wonders if his padawan would be so forgiving, if he knew the whole truth. He hopes, but he doubts. His padawan is, in some way, still _himself_ , after all.

‘ _I didn’t mean to hurt you, master._ ’ Obi-Wan hesitantly touches against his mind.

‘ _A question that hurts to ask, for an answer that hurts to give, Obi-Wan_.’ Ben replies. ‘I _am sorry. I’m not the Jedi I could be. I’m not the Jedi I_ should _be_. _You deserve better_.’

The quiet between them is a gulf Ben can feel in his chest. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and feel Obi-Wan’s, pulsing against his ribs.

His padawan takes in and lets out a shuddering sigh.

‘ _There is no easy path to Knighthood, no guarantee of success. I will likely fail to be what you would wish for in a Master, in a Jedi, and in a man. But I can swear to teach you the lessons that you will_ need _for what is to come – if you listen, and if you can bear them_.’ Obi-Wan recites, and Ben puzzles for a moment before he places the words as his own. ‘ _That was what you promised me, when you asked me to be your padawan_. _You haven’t broken that promise master. This is- this is just another lesson._ ’ Obi-Wan says, his young mind a torrent of emotions, and yet still offering him _absolution_ , and Ben _can’t_ – he can’t-

Some people come into our lives and show us the kind of person we want to be.

And some show us the kind of person we _don’t_ want to be.

And Ben just happens to show his padawan both, and he is so proud, because he doesn’t _want_ Obi-Wan to be like him, he desperately _does not want it_ , but it still _hurts_ , to find himself failing in his padawan’s eyes, to feel the disappointment buried in Obi-Wan’s chest, and the ache, because his padawan does not want to feel disappointed in him-

“Oh…” Ben sighs. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?” He asks hoarsely.

Obi-Wan laughs pitifully. “Yes, _Bajibuir_. We’re a mess.” His voice is hushed, but Ben can still hear the trace of tears.

‘ _Master I… I love you_.’ The thought rushes at him, hurried and embarrassed, sincere and uncertain of its reception.

‘ _You may regret that some day_.’ Ben quips.

‘ _I’m serious_.’ A flash of anger.

 _So am I_ , Ben thinks shakily, for his own mind alone, and then; ‘ _And I love you, Obi-Wan. You are the greatest hope I have for the galaxy, and for myself. And I am sorry_.’

‘ _I know_.’ Obi-Wan shifts, relaxing a little as the worst of it passes between them. ‘ _I just… I wish you’d talk to me more. Tell me more. I want to help you, Master_.’

‘ _Some day, padawan, I’ll tell you everything_.’ Ben promises, heart aching.

Obi-Wan grumbles. “Is there anything you can tell me _today_?”

Ben chuffs, a hollow pit in his chest, twisting his arm to ruffle his padawan’s hair. He takes a deep breath and lets out a deep sigh and thinks.

Obi-Wan waits.

“Do they have to make sense?” Ben asks quietly.

“Master, you hardly ever make sense.” Obi-Wan sighs, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I’d hardly expect you to break tradition now.”

“Ha ha.” Ben mutters dryly, and feels a curl of his padawan’s amusement take root. Ben takes another steadying breath, nodding to himself.

“The first time I was in an Arena – that I told you of the other morning – I lost a good many friends that day.” Ben says quietly. “And the last time I was in a sandstorm, I stumbled out of it to found Shmi.”

“That was quite a bit bigger than my sand exercise.” Obi-Wan murmurs. “What we did.”

“Did you know how many grains of sand you were holding?” Ben inquires.

“No.” Obi-Wan replies, and Ben can’t see his face, but he knows his nose has crinkled.

“Then you haven’t mastered the exercise, which is not, in fact, about _sand_.” Ben informs him dryly.

Obi-Wan sighs, and Ben lets his hand slide out of his padawans hair, feeling his fingers start to lose circulation at the awkward angle.

“I’ve been to Rattattak before.” Ben admits.

“You had Quinlan searching your memories.” Obi-Wan confirms.

“I was held there and tortured for weeks, before my captor left me for dead and rescue arrived as I and my companion had just managed to escape. I still don’t entirely recall _how_ I freed myself.” Ben murmurs, thinking sardonically that this was _wonderful_ fodder for bad dreams to be giving his padawan. “And the last time I went to Dathomir… I was chasing the same shadow we are chasing today.”

“The Sith.” Obi-Wan utters.

“The Sith.” Ben sighs.


	22. Chapter 22

_Some parts and tools_ , Master Naasade had said.

Watching his padawan eagerly root through the crate of components Naasade had _just happened_ to have with him, Narec resolves to never trust anything out of Naasade’s mouth at face value again. He has every tool a youngling would need to construct a lightsaber, several dozen components all remarkably suited to his padawan’s tastes and needs, and a pouch full of kyber crystals Ky would have lost a hand for trying to remove from the Temple Vaults, back in his day. He knows, because he’d run into the issue when he took it upon himself to build his second saber as a senior padawan.

Trying to get his padawan to feel what her saber – _sabers_ , most likely – were supposed to be, as opposed to allowing her to design them, was a lesson several years delayed, and was earning him a great many scowls as she found a part she was particularly taken with, but that he had a sense was not quite _right_.

“Master, I’ve been thinking about this for _years_!”

“A lightsaber is not something that one simply builds, little one.” Ky entreats gently, easily soothing away her flaring frustration in the Force. “It comes together, as a part of you, an extension of you. It is not what you _want_ that we are building, but what you _need_. What suits and compliments you, your character, your skills.”

“But this is pretty.” She grumbles, turning over an opalescent grip guard in her hand. Ky fights down a twitching smile and takes hold of her hand, setting the piece aside and uncurling her fingers.

“Relax.” He instructs. “Breathe. Don’t think about it.”

“You know, master, half the time you’re telling me to stop and think things through, and the other half-“

“Hush.” Ky murmurs, “I told you to breathe.”

She growls, sighs, and then takes a practiced breath.

“Close your eyes – don’t picture it in your mind. I want you to _feel_ it in your hand. Don’t reach for it – let it simply _be_.”

It takes her a few minutes before he face finally relaxes, the scowling furrow in her brow smoothing out. Her fingers twitch, hand curling into a grasp. A smile of delight overtakes her face and she blinks open her winter-bright eyes. “ _Oh_.”

Ky smiles. “Do you see now?”

Her brow twitches. “Better than _you_ , master.” She teases, before diving back into the crate of parts, her search more deliberate.

Ky chuffs a laugh at his own expense, watching her. Building one’s own saber was an important step on the path of a Jedi, and he finds a quiet sadness dimming his joy of the moment. Her eagerness aside, his hopes aside, this may not be her path at all.

“Master?”

He doesn’t realize at first that she’s stopped, a small pile of parts in her lap, watching him in concern until she waves an impatient hand in front of his face. “Master?”

“I’m only chasing my thoughts.” Ky sighs. She watches him, eyes wide and assessing, and then folds her hands into her lap, her shoulders tensing and her gaze turning somber.

“I _want_ to be a Jedi.” She tells him, guessing correctly where those thoughts lead, as always.

“So far as you know.” Ky replies, as kindly as he can manage. “It’s not a terrible thing to have options, you know. And it’s not a terrible thing to choose a different path.”

“But you’ll be….” She trails off, hunching.

“Disappointed? In you? Never.”

Her face colors, flushing towards a violet hue, and she crosses her arms, both embarrassed and pleased by his regard. “What’s a Witch anyways?” she grumbles. “I’m _not_ a Darksider and I don’t believe in magic.”

“You do too.” Ky counters, quirking a brow. “As I distinctly recall, you have a habit of-“

“ _Master_!” She protests, her blush more pronounced. “That’s not the point!”

Ky lets that particular story be, and nods, solemnness once more infringing on their peace.

“The witches of Dathomir are….inscrutable. Their powers are different than ours, and yes, they are often considered to delve into Dark practices, but that does not unequivocally make them _evil_. They are your people, Asajj. You have a right to learn what that means.”

“What if I don’t?” She asks, voice raspy and low. “What if I don’t want the choice, so I don’t have to choose?”

Ky is thoughtful, for a minute, and he answers carefully. “I think it would haunt you.” He tells her. “And I know it would haunt me, like an unmade promise waiting just behind and just ahead.”

There was a reason, after all, that most padawans were, at some point in their training, usually quite early into their apprenticeship, taken to their system of origin. To learn first-hand where they came from, to learn what their people were like. Granted, Asajj’s situation was different – those padawans were not taken home to choose between going back and going on to knighthood. They had already made that choice. But Asajj… her choices had been taken from her by circumstances. She had been _stolen_ , made a slave and an orphan and he had raised her. What else for her was there except for his teachings?

“Ugh.” She grumbles, sighing and dropping her head a little before peaking back up. “Why do you have to be right?”

Ky smirks. “Oh, I don’t know, perhaps it has something to do with the title-“

“ _Master_.”

“ – yes, that one.”

She rolls her eyes, giving a puff of air that stirs the longer strands of her fringe away from her face. Then she takes a deep breath, settling herself into the space around them, and digs her hands into her pile of parts. “I still want to build my lightsabers. Help me?” She entreats, big eyed and certain.

Tomorrow’s choices are for tomorrow. We must live today.

“Of course, little one.” Ky nods. “But to start…” He reaches over, plucking a component from her collection. “Even for two sabers, that is one too many power cells.”

“…oh.”

~*~

Tholme pauses just outside the cockpit.

Over Quinlan’s shoulder, Tholme can see his padawan leafing through the ream of pictures little Aayla has drawn and given to him. Tholme had given his padawan a protective tube to keep them in, which was easy to store and easy to carry, decorated with a kiffu weave pattern. It left the flimsiplast curled at the edges, but it made the pictures easy to pack. Tholme catches him tracing his fingers over yellow butterflies and considers continuing on his way, but Naasade and his padawan were meditating, Narec and _his_ padawan had taken over the hold to work on their lightsabers, and, well, Tholme had naturally sought out his own student.

“You’re not lurking very subtly, master.” Quinlan informs him blandly, tipping his head back.

“I’m not _lurking_ and I wasn’t trying to be subtle.” Tholme replies, just as bland, and moves into the space. “Have you done your research on Dathomir?” Tholme inquires, lowering himself into the co-pilots seat, his prosthetic leg – no matter what the manufacturers insisted – just a little more resistant to the motion than his real one, always a fraction behind natural muscle movement.

Quinlan hums noncommittally, and Tholme frowns. His padawan glances over, yellow sparks in his gaze that Tholme was more and more resigned to, finding them less and less unnerving, and taps his temple. It was how he articulated that he was working off of knowledge he just simply had, and it was, to put it bluntly, irritating. Useful, perhaps, but Tholme would much prefer his padawan do his own independent research, rather than rely on what echoes remained of what Naasade had known.

Quinlan can suss out his displeasure far easier these days than ever before, and gives his master a lingering sigh. “There isn’t much _to_ research, master. Any accounts written by outsiders are unverifiable at best, and any accounts actually written by a Nightsister should be handled with caution. Both of which, I might add, are few and far in between. Dathomir likes to _keep_ its secrets.”

Well, his padawan wasn’t _wrong_. Even Tholme had known that the information he got his hands on was out of date at best, and the only modern first-hand report they had was from Anya – and she had not come away from that interaction well, her current condition a brutal testament to the Nightsisters power, their malice towards outsiders, and the Jedi in particular.

“Naasade thinks that the witches of Dathomir could help you.” Tholme states. “Is that in there somewhere?” He makes a habit _not_ to ask what Quinlan learned from Naasade’s memories, but this is… this is no _idle_ curiosity.

“Yeah.” Quinlan replies, nodding thoughtfully. “There’s a chance.”

Tholme stares out the viewport, thinking _chance_ , chances were all he ever got, fickle and fleeting and dangerous.

He takes them anyways _. Take the next chance, and the next_ , a voice whispers to him. _On and on until we win, or the chances are spent_.

He studies his padawans profile, the lanky teen rapidly becoming a far more stocky adult, the edges of his face losing the softness of youth, his sharp nose and sharp cheekbones giving him a far more stern look than suited his personality. Before everything that had happened - with the exception of his impulsiveness and his tendency to get himself into trouble - Tholme had been aware that Quinlan was ready to outgrow his master.

After the incident, Quinlan had been far more reserved – and far less keen on his own independence. Not… co-dependant, but there was an aching, knowing need in his eyes sometimes, when he looked at Tholme, as if he knew what it felt like to lose him.

It was unnerving, and at the same time, it had bridged a growing divide in their relationship. Quinlan had been less dismissive of his advice, and far readier to bring his troubles and questions up to his master, seeking that advice out, instead of rooting out all his answers for himself.

He was still a natural investigator, and too curious for his own good, but altogether, even if he was Fallen, he was _wiser_. He valued the act of knowing what he did not know.

In some way, Tholme feels he has more chances now – that _they_ have more chances now – riskier ones, perhaps, the stakes higher than he could believe, but more of them.

“Stop it.” Quinlan looks over, irritated, and Tholme feels his lips thin out.

“What?” He grunts.

Quinlan waves a hand in his direction. “Being all….nostalgic and weird. I’m not going anywhere, old man.”

Tholme thinks about that conversation he had with Shmi, and sees the chance before him now- he has to know.

“I’d go with you.” Tholme says.

Quinlan pauses, lips twisting in confusion. “What?”

“If you – left. I’d go with you.”

He expects – he doesn’t know, really – but anger wasn’t it.

“You – can’t.” Quinlan sputters, his abrupt, bitter anger filling the air. “Just…. throw your life away for me. That’s not – you’re a Jedi – you shouldn’t – you wouldn’t-“ He jolts out of the pilots chair, stumbling around it, and stands between the two seats, glowering at Tholme, his eyes more brown than yellow, because in all that anger and fear and suspicion is love; the helpless, binding, selfless kind of love. “ _No_.”

“I don’t have it in me to train another padawan.” Tholme says bluntly. “And I don’t have it in me to go back to the Temple without you. I knew that the day you were judged by the Council of Reconciliation. If they had taken you from me I would have gone back out to the field, and I would not have returned. I knew that then; so I am telling you now – I am not abandoning you, Quinlan. Whether this works or not, whether you’re Fallen or not. Whether you can bear to go back to the confine of the Temple or not – _I’m_ not going anywhere.”

His padawans dark skin flushes, pales, jaw clenching and unclenching.

Eventually, he throws himself back into the pilots chair with that reckless grace that teenagers have. “You’re terribly sentimental, old man.”

Tholme chuffs, because they both know that isn’t true.

They both look out at the stars streaming by, Quinlan’s presence becoming very….quiet.

“Thank you, Tholme.” Quinlan says, after a long silence. “For everything.”

Tholme nods, pulling himself up out of the co-pilots chair, wincing at the momentary pressure between his thigh and his prosthetic, and drops a hand on Quinlans shoulder, squeezing briefly. Quinlan offers him a corner curl of a smile, and Tholme musses his padawans dreadlocks. “Of course, Quinlan.”

He heads out of the cockpit.

“Hey, uh….” Quinlan calls back. “Maybe stay a bit?”

Tholme turns back around. “You had to wait till I was out the door to ask?”

“It’s like five steps.” Quinlan retorts. “You’re not an invalid, just come back.”


	23. Chapter 23

“So…. _I_ am responsible for all five of _you_.” Asajj clarifies skeptically, arms crossed, brow lowered. “Why didn’t you bring _women_?”

It pleases her, some, to know that her people held her in such regard, that the Nightsisters were _rulers_ , if nothing else, when Asajj knew too well what it was to be powerless, but the practicality of those assigned to the mission is somewhat… lacking. She’d met these people the day before yesterday, and now they were entrusting their _lives_ to her?

 _Crazy_.

That is, of course, what Jedi _do_.

“Because we were the ones who needed to go?” Master Naasade points out with a light shrug. “It could not be helped.”

Asajj stares at him. There’s something about Master Naasade that _bothers_ her, and her master too. The way he _looks_ at her. It’s not… _looking_ like she’s used to being looked at. It’s intense and knowing and a little apprehensive and she has no idea what to do with that. Neither does her master.

And that puts her on edge, and yet when she scowls at him he…relaxes, a bit, like that’s what he expects her to do. Which is weird and irritating, but better than the glances of sadness she’s caught a few times. She likes his padawan better. At least Obi-Wan Kenobi is straightforward – if a little boring (sure, he had some awesome skills, but _quoting rules_ at his _master_ , who does that?) and he treats her courteously, like she’s any other padawan and not some… not some rescued waif who doesn’t know a third of the things she _should_ know.

She doesn’t really have a feel for Master Tholme, aloof as he seems to be. He’s quiet and disciplined and she thinks he has a sense of humor under there somewhere, but that doesn’t really say much. His padawan on the other hand – Quinlan Vos is, her master had quietly confirmed – _Dark_ , and she has no idea how that’s possible.

Well, she knows how it’s _possible_ , but she doesn’t understand how he’s Dark _and a Jedi_. Master Ky says they’re trying to help him, but that goes against everything he’s taught her, everything _he_ was taught.

 _There have been many changes, little one. I fear we’ll both be out of our depth. But at least we’ll be there together_. Her master had mused.

They’re all contradictory and strange, and she’s not sure she likes them, but they did help recue herself and her master, and they helped free Rattattak from the Siniteen, and she is really, in fact, very nervous about being put in charge of their lives.

 _The Nightsisters don’t take kindly to outsiders, and men even less_ , Master Naasade had informed them. _But you’re a daughter of their clan. That’s…sacred. They’ll welcome you, and hopefully, under your protection, they may welcome us as well_.

Asajj blinks, breaking her deadlock stare with Master Naasade, and grumbles.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

From the corner of her eye, she can see the Mandalorian jedi’s expression pinch.

 _Great_. She thinks, looking to her master and wondering what sort of _poodoo_ they were about to get into now. _He does too_.

~*~

“Oh, wonderful.” Quinlan mutters, as they drop out of hyperspace. “It even looks sinister.”

Tholme sighs quietly, eyeing the planet below. It’s surface was a murky, luminous red, with darker shadows of landmasses and wispy silver curls of high clouds, orbited by two cold moons.

Even from beyond orbit, Tholme can feel that Dathomir has _power_.

But unlike what he had expected, it was not a well of cold, strong with the Dark Side of the Force. The draw of the Force was strong, but its nature was…elusive, coyly teasing at his senses, easy to perceive but difficult to grasp, like mist. Unsettling, and, as he reaches for it, uninviting. The closer they get, the more he can feel that _they are not wanted here_.

“You’ll want to take us down there.” Master Naasade leans over Quinlan’s shoulder, pointing to a landing zone, and Tholme doesn’t flinch, but he will admit to being alarmed. He had not felt Naasade slip up behind them.

 _Damn Shadows_.

Tholme has trained with _assassins_ less discreet than the irksome Mandalorian Jedi beside him. Naasade offers him a brief apologetic glance for forgetting to make himself known, and Tholme glowers. Naasade, he has noticed, takes great care to remind himself to be as others would expect him to be, and not as he is. The more Tholme catches glimpses and glances and hints as to what he is, the more frightening that seems to be, and the more Tholme understands the care he takes.

“That is a swamp.”

“I’m aware. There’s a citadel in the heart of it.”

“I don’t see anything.” Quinlan huffs. “And the scanners are having a hell of a time trying to either.”

“I know.” Naasade replies. “You’re not supposed to. Secrecy is as valuable a defense as any shield or weapon.”

“So you’re going to set us down right on top of them? They’ll _love_ that.”

“Oh, _you’re_ judging _my_ skills at knocking? I’m not, in fact, setting us down right on top of them.” Naasade retorts snarkily. “I’m just getting us in range of their front door. _They’ll_ find _us_.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

~*~

“You ready for this, Asajj?” Ky asks, hand on her shoulder. She looks up at her, fringe brushing against her cheek.

“I don’t know.” She replies, eyes wide and bleeding uncertainty. “I don’t think I am. But I have to be, don’t I?”

Ky sighs, other hand resting in his belt above his lightsaber, out of survivalist habit. “It does rather seem as if the course has been set for us, doesn’t it?” He replies. “I do wish it was not sprung so suddenly upon you – upon us both, truly - but regardless, Asajj, I do have faith in you.”

“We don’t even know the point of this mission.” She grumbles.

“I wasn’t talking about the mission, little one.” Ky grumbles back, before composing himself. “I meant that whatever you choose, whatever changes, whatever may come, I have faith in you.”

She blushes violet and scowls, making a scoffing sound but blinking a bit furiously, her glance darting up for reassurance before darting off again so she can glare at the wall about being embarrassed. Eventually she squirms and nods, taking a deep breath and letting it out, managing to clear her expression, though she still glowed in the Force. “Thank you, Master.” She rasps.

Ky smiles, turning away so she doesn’t think he’s laughing at her, and tucks his own uncertainties aside, letting her bask in his certainty, shoring up her own fortitude. She had behaved with remarkable calm, but inside her emotions were running high, pulling her this-way and that, and if she must face the storm, it was his role to be her anchor.

The ship lurches a little as they land, and they can hear Padawan Kenobi shout at Padawan Vos to be easy on the struts, and Padawan Vos shout back – well, it was _rude_.

Padawan Kenobi stomps onto the scaffold above the hold muttering beneath his breath, and takes a short vault over the rail, dropping to the ground below with such casual ease that Ky has to take a moment to even register what he’s just done.

 _Why_ , he thinks, _do teenagers have such an aversion to perfectly serviceable stairs and ladders_?

When the boys master follows a moment later with exactly the same maneuver, Ky grumbles, giving up on the matter. Clearly, because that was the example set for him.

Ky pauses, glancing at his padawan.

 _I am not that bad_. He thinks comfortingly to himself. _Surely_.

Tholme and Vos, at least, take the ladder, though Vos just skids down the rails, his master the only one actually making use of the steps, but then, Tholme was by far the most sensible of them, in so much as Ky could tell. An old watchman, not unlike Ky himself.

Naasade presses the control to drop the ramp, and a warm fog trails in as the red glow of the planet’s vegetation makes itself known.

“Oh, right.” Naasade mutters.

“What?” Vos snaps.

“The humidity.”

Kenobi snorts at his master’s expense, earning a thin-lipped look.

Asajj takes the first few hesitant steps out, breathing in deep. The air smells like clay and water, rotting wood and warm loam, potent and natural. The fog sinks in, pressing like airy fingertips, prodding, seeking, urging, and even her breath seems to echo, once she’s left the ship, even though it _shouldn’t_. Ky follows her quickly, a strange, apprehensive sense of urgency to the act, as if she might take one step too far and fold into the world utterly apart from him.

His padawan turns slowly once her feet have left the ramp, sinking slightly into mossy ground, warm beneath their feet, the strange bioluminescent trees creating sharp archways around them. “I think…” She trails off, her feet leading her away, and the rest of them follow. The ship closes up behind them and Padawan Kenobi pauses, looking back at it with a frown.

The fog swirls around their feet, too thick to see through, shifting and curling, and the swamp around them seems to whisper.

“Trust yourselves.” Master Naasade warns abruptly, suddenly tense. “And nothing else.”


	24. Chapter 24

Asajj looks back at the red haired master, taking a deep breath and wondering _why_ he is so uneasy. The air fills her lungs, richer and more revitalizing than any dust-touched breeze of Rattattak ever had been. Can’t they feel that? In the warmth beneath their feet, in the tickle of mist against their skin, in the bloom of _life_ reaching out from under shadowy boughs? The _invitation_.

She bounces on her feet a little, almost giddy, and leans into the call, whispering in her bones. “It’s this way, master. I’m sure of it.” She grins back at him, and he too looks tense and uneasy.

But he trusts her, offering a short nod. “By all means, padawan, lead on.”

She does, trusting that untouchable pull in her chest, stronger than it’s ever been, leading them into the mists.

The path winds, occasionally broken. Thorny tussocks of grass brush against their feet, and moss sinks softly. Water occasionally sloshes under their feet, when they step awry, and pools seem to shimmer with an eerie green light. It’s beautiful and strange, and Asajj wonders how she could ever have been nervous about coming here, when it felt so _right_.

It’s almost funny, how uncomfortable her companions seem to be, when she glances back at them. Vos strolls behind her master, casting suspicious looks into the shadows, his eyes doing that weird color changing thing again. _His_ master marches behind him with a grim determination. Taking up the rear are the two Mandalorian jedi, Naasade with his hand on Kenobi’s shoulder, keeping his padawan right in front of him. Padawan Kenobi seems wary, but curious of his surroundings. Master Naasade, on the other hand, has a steely look in his eye, and he keeps glancing up into the curved trees above them, as if expecting an ambush.

Then Vos stumbles, his attention jerking to the side. “…Aayla?” He calls.

“Tholme.” Naasade warns, but the other master already has one hand on his padawan. “She’s not here.” The master insists firmly, and then twitches himself, looking the other way, his grip slackening.

“ _Tholme_!” Naasade warns more sharply. The scarred master shakes himself, clenching his hand in the grip he has on his padawans tunics.

“She’s – she’s there. Can’t you hear her? Master, let me _go_!” Vos insists, jerking towards whatever it was that had ensared him. Asajj looks into the mists, where his yellow gaze is so intent, but there’s _nothing there_.

She looks to her own master uncertainly, his face pinched and tight when he looks back at her.

Naasade suddenly freezes too, and by Kenobi’s jerking wince, his grip on his padawan had just become painfully tight. He closes his eyes, expression drained of color, and refuses to move, even when Kenobi addresses him uncertainly.

Then Master Ky takes a step off the path, his foot sinking into water without even seeming to realize, his expression shaken and confused. “ _Master_?” He calls out.

Anger fires up in her belly and in her bones, and Asajj glares around at the mists. “Stop it!” She demands hoarsely. “Leave them alone!”

“They trespass, little sister.” A voice, whispering and echoed, says right in front of her, and Asajj jumps, startled. Her master doesn’t even seem to notice – not her action, not the stranger suddenly standing a pace in front of her. “They aren’t welcome here.” She says.

She’s tall – taller than Master Narec, at least, her skin the same chalk-pale hue as Asajj’s, though dark blue tattoos adorn her face, making her eyes seem more luminous, making her cheeks seem sharper, and her braided hair is a deep silver color, compared to Asajj’s own blue-black. Her clothes are red and grey, blending in to the world around them effortlessly.

“They’re with me.” Asajj insists, turning back to grab her master by the sleeve before he gets any more than knee deep into the waters. “Am I?”

The woman – the Nightsister – smiles. “Are you one of us?” She inquires, her voice echoing with other voices, whispering all around Asajj. “We shall see.”

Suddenly, they are surrounded, Nightsister’s stepping out of the shadows, armed with plasma bows, and Asajj’s companions no longer seemed plagued by illusions and mind-snares, coming back to themselves.

Master Ky twitches and makes a hard sound low in his throat, stomping back out of the water with disgruntlement.

“We mean you no harm.” Master Naasade says, a little color returning to his face as he opens his eyes again, lifting his hands passively.

“Don’t be so sure about that.” Vos snarls lowly, yellow gaze blazing. A witch snickers at him, and his look turns venomous.

“ _Quinlan_.” Padawan Kenobi calls carefully, voice steady and calming.

“What do we care for your meaning?” The Nightsister before Asajj inquires. “Bind them.” She orders her sisters, and the Jedi allow themselves to be bound, hands behind their heads. Asajj is left free, and she watches apprehensively, scowling at the woman who binds her master, who reassures her that it’s fine.

Towards the back, she notices there is an argument over who has to bind Master Naasade, and the one who loses does it most warily, two of the witches attentively keeping their bows trained on him.

“Come, little sister.” The witch entreats her, reaching out to take her hand, which Asajj jerks back. She smiles, taking no offense, and sneers at Asajj’s company. “We shall take you to the Mother.”

~*~

“It is not that the proposal is without merit, Master Fay-“

“Master Rancisis.” Fay pleads. “Please.”

“ – _Fay_ ,” He corrects softly, reptilian eyes gleaming merrily. “It is only…” The Thisspiasian master trails off, fingers twitching as he tries to choose how best to articulate the nature of the objection. His coils winds beneath him, and the DiploCorps Chairman gives a sigh. “It is only that we are afraid.” He murmurs, voice hissing low with self-reproachful dissatisfaction. “We are very few now – we are _aware_ that we are very few now, and we fear for ourselves. We fear to send our own off into the galaxy, with the looming threat that a Jedi alone is no longer enough. That they may never return.” He shakes his head, silver hair swishing this way and that. “What has become of us.” He queries to no one, mood drooping.

Fay understands their fear, and she has heard more than one quiet rage from Naasade that such fears were exactly what he attempted to avoid. He is right. Master Rancisis is right – they have made great strides, realizing their precarious place in the Galaxy, but they have also grown hesitant, and that – that was no good thing, for a Jedi.

The idea of sending out Rangers is well received theoretically, but the idea of potentially losing experienced masters to this unknown danger lurking all around them – in practicality, it stonewalled any effort to actually implement such ideas. The Jedi are cautious – good, as they are threatened. But are they _too_ cautious?

“Has it occurred to you – to any of us –“ Fay corrects herself. “ that out in the wilds of the galaxy may be a safer place for some of us to be?” She suggests, heart aching to do so, but the truth of the matter is apparent: _Temple’s Bane_ had proved it – their sanctuaries were no guarantee of either safety nor security.

“Perhaps.” Master Rancisis murmurs. “But to think such a thing is a far cry from actually confessing such a thing.”

Fay sighs out her nose in frustration, again forced to admit that he is not wrong. It was frustrating to argue with her own, she remembers now, because it is damnably difficult to have an argument with someone who approaches the debate with equally good points and equally good intentions.

Giggles interrupt their walking debate, and the two Master’s pause, watching several large pots float around the corner, behind which were very little feet, pushing them along as quickly as the younglings could manage, followed by two very similar boys, one of which with his arms upheld and a close-eyed look of concentration on his face, letting his fellow guide him as he guided the potted plants.

A small gasp, and the pots wobble, desert-sky blue eyes opening, and little faces appearing from behind the pottery.

Master Rancisis laces his fingers together and Fay crosses her arms, a delighted smile lighting her face for all that she lifts an imperious brow. “And just what are we up to?” She inquires, as sternly as she can manage.

“….” The tiny, chubby-faced togruta boy pushing the nearest pot just open and closes his mouth several times, and the tawny haired girl giggles nervously. A little nikto boy hides behind the pot he had been pushing, and the twi’lek beside him just babbles out something in Ryl, as if attempting to feign ignorance of Basic.

The two human boys in the back glance at each other before blinking up at the master’s very innocently. Fay blinks back at them, because someone is using a rather excellent shield technique for as young as they are, but she can still feel that there is an absolute wealth of power beneath.

“Moving a garden?” The blonde boy suggests.

Fay’s lips twitch. The masters had, of course, noticed that the new influx of potted plants in the Temple tended to rove – Master Yoda had had a maze set up outside his quarters overnight just last week – but the culprits were, alas, a mystery.

Likely, she mused, there were many.

“And where are we moving it to?” She inquires.

“The dining hall?” The tawny-haired girl suggests.

“Oh?” Fay stares the girl down ,and she fidgets, but doesn’t cave.

“Well…” Master Rancisis remarks. “I suppose the dining hall is rather bland.”

The younglings all glance at each other, and then at the thisspiasian master with rising hopefulness.

“Do carry on.” Master Rancisis motions. “Don’t mind us.”

The younglings all grin and giggle, and Fay watches with interest as the blonde boy once more lifts all eight, unwieldy pots with the force, and his companions take off with a dash, steering them along.

Once they’re gone, the pattering of their shoes trailing down then next corner, Fay turns to Master Rancisis. “That human initiate, the blonde, I don’t suppose you know who…?”

“Anakin Skywalker.” Master Rancisis informs her. “And he is not, strictly speaking, an initiate. His mother will not turn him over to the creche.”

“Padawan Skywalkers child?” Fay can perhaps recall seeing the woman with a few younglings, and she had heard she was a mother, but she had not quite noticed the boys burning power before – and _how_ she had not noticed was a mystery.

“Perhaps I’ll speak with her.” Fay murmurs.

“He is much too young for apprenticeship.” Master Rancisis remarks. “And rather claimed besides. I do believe Padawan Kenobi would challenge you for him.”

Fay laughs. “I would not be so bold as to challenge Padawan Kenobi.” She teases. “But power and youth need careful guidance.”

Fay herself had, and still neither she nor her master had known _enough_. Her own connection to the Force was so intense – well, it brought her here and now, no older this day than she had been upon her knighting. What she would have given in those early years, to have simply understood more of what that depth of connection would mean, and both the gifts it would offer – and what dangers it would pose.

“Well, one can hardly argue with that.” Her companion remarks, and leaves it be.


	25. Chapter 25

Ben knows he does not and never did have a complete history of the Nightsisters, but there is a marked difference in between them here and now and what they were or would have been fifteen years from now. Their power remains unchanged – more prevalent, at present, perhaps – but it runs deep through the planet, through the people, and it does not welcome him. But that unwelcome is different – he feels watched, and he can almost sense… a curiosity, an _intent_. It almost felt like….

Ben shakes his head. He can’t quite remember.

But the people – the people were thriving, as they had not been during the Clone Wars. The citadel stronghold they are taken to is far better cared for, more decoration lined the dwellings in the form of curtains and tasseled streamers and odd chimes, vases and urns growing herbs and berried bushes created gardens on the stone, and there are more witches to be seen – and children, which he had not previously recognized the _lack_ of.

 _What would happen here_? He wonders. _Was it malice, or pestilence? Or simply decay_?

He doesn’t know, and what he does know, well….

The witches take them before their temple within the stronghold, but not inside. Orange lamps line the pathways, and slow river gleams green. The light on Dathomir was strange, and cast strange shadows, for all that he could see clearly. They are pushed to their knees, and Ben forces down his first instinctive urge to struggle and refuse, remembering the last time he’d been in such a position.

 _This is not Zygerria_. He reminds himself.

“Mother.” One of the witches calls, and Ben looks up to see Mother Talzin glide out of the temple, making her way leisurely down the steps to greet her daughters. Even in her prime, she could not be called beautiful, but she was striking. She wore a black and purple ensemble beneath her winged red robe, but her pale hair was not wrapped up in cloth, but flowed in many braids threaded with red string, spilling over her shoulders and down her back, her power like an invisible fire around her figure.

She turns to Asajj after receiving the witches quiet, unintelligible report, and takes the startled girls hands.

“My child. Our child. You have come home to us.” She smiles, her voice carrying a dozen or a hundred other overlapping, whispering voices, male and female, young and old. “And look at you – “ She draws back, enough to see her fully. “So _strong_. And still with so much untapped potential.”

“Th- thank you?” Asajj replies uncertainly, though her face was aglow with awe, trying to take everything in with wide eyes. Mother Talzin smiles indulgently.

“I’ve summoned your mother. Your loss – your _sacrifice_ ,” She corrects herself, “has never been forgotten. You have been dearly missed.”

“My mother?” The padawan blurts, looking to her master, who quirks a brow at the fact that he is still on his knees, hands bound behind his head. His padawan colors.

“M – Mother Talzin.” She stumbles over the address. “Could you please release them. They have been good to me, and it is the Jedi who have brought me… home. This is my Master, Ky-“

“You are a daughter of Dathomir.” Mother Talizn says sharply. “No _man_ is your master.”

“Says the woman who gave her into slavery.” Ben remarks pointedly, and finally earns more than her initial, dispassionate glance.

“I did what I must for the Clan, in spite of grief over grief for having been forced to do it.” She tells Asajj, refusing to address him, as he was unworthy, but then she turns to look, and whatever she sees – Mother Talzin balks, and that, Ben had not expected. “What foul harbinger are _you_?” She hisses, stalking over to him.

At his side, Obi-Wan tenses, and Ben stares up at the furious – frightened, he realizes – Witch.

“Bring him.” She commands, and turns away, gathering one edge of her trailing robe that she may ascend the stairs.

“Mother, should we not just feed them to the deep?” A Nightsister asks.

Mother Talzin shoots the younger woman an irritated glance. “They are Jedi.” She remarks. “A dead Jedi is more misery than it is worth.”

“ _Master_!” Obi-Wan hisses, as Ben is yanked up to his feet and threatened up the stairs.

“All is well, Padawan.” Ben assures him. “Clearly, she doesn’t want me dead.” He smiles, well aware that there were far worse things a Nightsister of such power could do to him.

~*~

Asajj stares up at the temple as the doors close, and then blinks, and looks awkwardly to her master, who is unimpressed with his position at present.

“Sorry, Master.”

“This is not, I think, your fault.” He replies dryly, but consolingly.

“Silence.” A Nightsister orders him with a scowl, plasma bow upheld threateningly. Asajj bristles, grabbing her new sabers off her belt.

“Don’t you touch him -“ She warns, and a gentle hand touches her shoulder.

“Easy, little sister.” The Witch murmurs, more warmly now than she had in the swamp. She glances at the archer, getting her to stand down with a flick of a gaze, and the archer does, though she still glowers at the prisoners. “We understand that they are…precious to you. They will not come to harm so long as they do as they are told. You don’t yet understand our ways.” She says placatingly, her voice curling in Asajj’s ears. “But that is hardly your fault.”

Asajj feels something clench in her chest, frustrated and longing at once, and she doesn’t know what to say.

“Suffice to say we find it wrong that this one seeks claim over you.” The witch adds, shooting her master a scathing look. “Can you not understand that, at least?” She offers.

“He doesn’t – he _raised_ me.” Asajj protests.

“Did he?” A new voice inquires, raspier and stronger all at once. Asajj and the witch who guided them both turn, and the witch stiffens and bows her head to the newcomer.

She’s tall, the edges of her face tattooed into shadow, and her eyes tattooed with dark trails beneath, like tears. Her dark silver hair is freeflowing and wispy, giving a somewhat careless look, though her face was soft and somber, and her gaze cold.

“Asassi.” The Nightsister greets, laying a gentle hand on Asajj’s shoulder, for all her voice seemed to tighten. “Little sister, this is your mother.”

“My Asajj?” The woman inquires, looking her over as she steps forward, reaching out to Asajj, who is rooted to the spot. A chilled hand touches the edge of her cheek, and then cups it. “Oh, those eyes.” Asassi murmurs, a light entering her cold look, and Asajj looks back anxiously, to find a fragile joy lighting up eyes very like her own, if bluer. “Yes, I know those eyes.”

Asajj can’t breathe, her body like stone. _Mother_?

~*~

When the temple door closes heavily behind him, Ben thinks he and Mother Talzin are of similar mind to give up on any pretenses, and he snaps the bindings holding his arms so uncomfortably behind his head. She stalks around the wide stone table, putting it between them, and turns in a whirl of cloth, glaring at him as he massages feeling back into his hands.

“You have returned a daughter to us.” She remarks, shoulders turned back proudly. “That is not to be taken lightly. I would spare you to leave, if I thought you would _go_.” She says scathingly, issuing a challenge. “But your generosity is not what it appears, is it? Jedi never are.”

“A harsh accusation, Mother.” Ben replies, leaning over his edge of the stone table, placing his palms upon it and feeling the concentration of power there, and the echoes of sacrifices past. This stone has seen blood; birth and death and change. Quite frankly, it stings, but he does not draw away. This is a test of wills, like two predators sizing each other up – he will not flinch first.

“Oh, and so you do not come here to make use of my talents?” She lifts a tattooed brow, unimpressed. “Is that not what your kind do, when your own sanctimonious skills fail you?”

“I came here to show Asajj Ventress her birthright, and to ask you a simple question. You need not even answer, and if, once I ask, you choose to dismiss me, I will go, and my company with me.”

“And our daughter.” She intones direly, eyes narrowing. “That is the price of refusal, is it not?”

“That is her choice.” Ben replies firmly, knowing not all her ire is simple prejudice – her Clan has suffered, and she has had her children bartered away more than once. That is why he is here, after all. “I will not take it from her.”

Moonlight eyes assess him suspiciously, far more impassioned now than she will be for the turning of years, but no less canny, and Ben waits. She breaks her gaze away, trails to the head of the table, and sits. “Ask.” She invites coldly, pinning him with an impenetrable stare, sharp, dark nails pressed into the stonework.

Ben does not invite himself to sit. He is not that impolite. He is her enemy – she is not his. Hopefully, she will come to see that.

“Do you _know_ what Darth Sideous will do to your people?” Ben asks simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: See next work for more Stories within a Story for the december holiday!


	26. Chapter 26

“Do you think you are clever, Jedi?”

Ben lifts a brow, lips twitching towards a smirk. “Aren’t I?”

Mother Talzin sneers in turn. “Darth Sideous and I have an understanding. My people have nothing to fear from him.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Ben drops his humors, gaze turning hard and narrowed. “That because you gave him one child to break and torture and twist into his tool that the rest of you are safe? That he would honor any word he ever gave?”

Moonlight eyes narrow, but she lets nothing show. “We are not to be trifled with. Not by Sith. Not by Jedi.”

“You have power.” Ben agrees readily. “And that is why, Mother Talzin, you cannot trust him. He will allow no power to thrive but his own.”

“And the Jedi are any different?” She scoffs.

Ben doesn’t react to the barb. “I will ask you again;” He says severely. “Do you know what Darth Sideous will _do_ to your people?”

She glowers at him, and Ben glowers back, and the shadows and the waters and the mist all whisper.

“ _Sit_.” She commands, after a long minute.

Ben draws himself a chair and sits.

She scrapes her nails along the stone, watching him.

“I am not a fool, and I will not be made a fool of.” She states coldly.

“Mother Talzin, I swear to you this is no trick.” Ben insist, leaning over one arm. “The Nightsisters will fall.” He swallows, gambling, and rolls the dice. “The Jedi will fall. When Darth Sideous wins, none of us survive it.”

“You are not,” She remarks, voices overlapping voices, “what you appear you be.”

She rises abruptly, chin lifted proudly, the wings of her robe drifting eerily, and offers him a dangerous hand. “Come.” She beckons, a hard, scouring glint in her eyes as she draws towards the shadows and the mist curling at the edges of the room, obscuring archways into darker places.

Ben rises, uncertain as to her purpose.

“I will have the truth, Jedi.” She intones, and the whispers curl around his ears like trailing fingertips threatening to rake across his skin. “You wish to convince us? _Come_.”

Ben takes a breath, accepts the Nightmother’s hand, and lets her lead him into shadow.

~*~

“Look at you,” her mother breathes, trailing fingers through her blue-black fringe. “You’ve grown so beautiful. Oh, how I yearned to know you, but never could I dream of what you might look like.”

Asajj searches her mothers face, words still stuck beneath the breath lodged in her throat. She has her mother’s eyes, though her mother’s eyes are bluer, but they look little alike. Her mother’s face is softer, rounder, less sharp, less proud. She’d often wondered if she ever looked like her parents.

“Say something.” Her mother pleads. “Say something!” She repeats, voice harder, more demanding, and Asajj feels a chill roll down her spine, that there was something not quite stable in that flicker quick shift of mood. It does not help that the Nightsister at her side tenses further, respectful of Asassi, but uneasy too.

“I don’t know what to….” Asajj says quickly, as her mothers hands lowers from her face to trail down her arms and take her hands. Her fingers are so chilled, and Asaj’’s skin twitches for the cold touch, for all that she grips her mothers hands back fiercely. “Hello.” Asajj says, feeling dumb and young, her eyes burning like she might cry and her heart pounding and pounding in her chest.

Her mother laughs, the sound full of delight. “Hello.” She returns, smiling beautifully. She steps back, pulling on Asaj’’s hands. “Come along,” She entreats. “ there is so much….” She trails off, looking sad, and then blinks it away. “ There is so much of each other we have missed.”

Asajj takes a few trailing steps with her, and then pauses, looking back. “My…friends.” She stops herself from saying ‘Master’.

A scowl passes through her mother’s eyes, as she casts an irritated glance at the Jedi. “The Mother will decide their fate.” She says coldly. “That is what the mother does. Come along.” She repeats, softening quickly as her gaze shifts from the Jedi to Asajj.

Asajj looks uneasily back to her master, who sighs, but offers her a subtle nod, the corner of his mouth twisting slightly in a look she knows too well, encouraging her to go do something he’s rather sure he might regret.

Asajj grumbles low in her throat, rolls her eyes, takes a fortifying breath, and follows her mother.

~*~

Ben follows Mother Talzin down slanted corridors and winding stone steps, through old halls and gathering places, lit with glowing pools and luminous amber crystals and pale candlelight, red banners adoring walls and floors, night gardens of fungi and lichen and moss being tended to by old women and young children. She leads him deeper, to where the stonework loses definition, and the walls seep with water, and the potency of the planets power soaks into the air. The humidity makes it harder to breath, every breath a tad too heavy, and the corridors get narrower, and the stairs steeper.

They lose the light entirely, and Ben stumbles blindly down steps after the sound of her ahead of him. He can hear the whispers get louder, but none of them say anything that makes sense to his ears, and the rush of water grows more distinct.

The stairs finally end, when Ben can sense the sheer multitude of weight of the world above his head, and a gloom lights one last narrow corridor that is less a walkway than it is a mere fissure in natural stone, expanding her sillouette and making the shadows dance.

He brushes damp strands of hair from his brow and follows, though every step tells him to turn around and _leave_.

And then he crosses the archway at the end, and something seems to give, that dread warning fading into that presence he sensed earlier, that curiosity of something… other.

Ben blinks, tips his head back, and stares in awe.

Mother Talzin turns, watching him, a coy, cold smile lighting her features.

Three great waterfalls pour down from immense height, each glowing faintly with their own hue – green, gold, blue. Mist swallows the space where the falls meet the pool below, the water shimmering and iridescent, but sparklingly clear, revealing a mirror-like obsidian bottom.

Steps lead down from just in front of him into the water, and in the center of the massive pool, the surface barely stirring save at the falls, stood a stone alter, a perfect replica of the one in the Temple above, and, if his instincts weren’t mistaken, aligned _exactly_ beneath it, a direct conduit of power.

Ben takes a step forward, and reassess – not a perfect replica. The alter above them was a table. This one… he can make out the shadow of a seam in the stone. The surface was identical, but the base was not – this one was a Tomb.

“The Waters of Dathomir.” Mother Talzin says. “It is the source of the planets power – and our own. The Waters of Life,” She gestures towards the falls, first the green, then the gold, then the blue. “The Waters of Change. The Waters of Truth.”

“Dathomir is a wellspring.” Ben replies, looking over the falls, which truly were beautiful. Ben has heard of other such places – been to a few, in fact, but those places were often affected by the world around them. They were purifying and Light, or corrupted and Dark. Dathomir was something else.

“Still trying to define what you do not understand.” Mother Talzin muses sardonically.

Ben snorts lightly. “What you call Magic I call the Force.” Ben replies.

“Call it what you like.” She replies. “That does not make it what you think it is.” She turns, taking a step away from the water. “Strip.” She commands.

“Beg pardon?” Ben turns after her, arms crossing. Moonlight eyes alight on him in amusement – and annoyance.

“It is a simple request, Jedi.” She arches a brow, undoing her own sashes and slipping free of her robe, letting it pool to the floor. “You may only enter the waters as you entered the world. You will reveal your skin.” She turns again, shedding her skirt, and Ben turns, keeping an eye on her only through her gleaming reflection in the water, for proprieties sake. “The waters will reveal… everything else.” A sharp grin flashes in the gloom, and Ben lets out a disgruntled breath.

“You may not like what you find, Mother.” Ben informs her plainly.

“It is not to me you are to be revealed.” She counters, as Ben rotely removes his _beskar’gam_ , and the armors harness, and his silks, setting them carefully upon the stone. She steps up behind him with a light pad of feet and snares the tie holding back his hair, pulling it free until the locks fall loose.

“Are you prepared, Jedi?” She inquires sneeringly, and Ben turns around, facing her, unamused.

“As I’ll ever-“

She places a hand on his chest, offers him a cold smile, and gives him a push, tipping him off the ledge.

Ben hits the water, which swallows him up, and drags him down.


	27. Chapter 27

The weight of his robes, dragging him down, stone and sky upended, a roaring in his ears-

Cold.

Cold, such cold as he has ever felt, and past the roaring – silence. Stars going out.

Shock.

Fear.

One by one, stars going out-

They’re firing on us-

Our own men are firing on us-

No-

No no no-

Water, swirling overhead, bubbles streaming up, gasps drawn out of his chest, darkness crowding the edges of his vision-

Ben claws at the water, dragging himself up, though his head is screaming _dying-death-dead_ , is warning danger-

He needs to breathe.

He can’t breathe-

He can’t-

All those lights going out.

Maybe he should.

Maybe he should just give in, give up, join them. Open his lungs and drown.

 _Anakin_.

 _What about Anakin_?

His padawan, his brother, his best friend. He can’t leave him. Not if he’s out there. Not if there is still a chance-

Ben breaks the surface with a gasp, sputtering, water streaming hot from his hair, blurring his vision. He blinks, wiping his face to clear it, and finds sand beneath his feet beneath the water, allowing him to stand. His gasps echo, and wisps of steam curl off ripples and disappear into an impossible sky-

Because it is sky, Dathomir’s red night, with the galaxy burning white above them, uncountable glittering stars on a horizon like spilled wine. He heaves in air, but he still feels like he’s being crushed, like he’s underwater yet.

Like he’s drowning.

“Now isn’t that _interesting_.”

Ben turns quickly, reeling from the memory, to see the dias behind him, to see the tomb aglow, bursting with power, and to see Mother Talzin perched on the edge – but the woman speaking to him is not Mother Talzin.

There is no multitude of voices, he realizes. All the whispers have stopped.

There was a power on Dathomir, he knew, connected intimately with the spirit – both living and dead – and that the Witches could, it was claimed, call upon that power. Some of it was simple trickery.

Some of it was not.

There is a voice, a single voice, speaking to him, but she does not simply speak so much as the words simply become, reverberating through his entire being – through this entire world.

He can see Mother Talzin, and he can see the spirit bursting out of her skin, all shadow and light and green fire.

“What are you?” Ben rasps out, taking an irresistible step forward, half terrified and half enthralled.

“What am I not?” She teases, voice powerful, but low and husky. “I am the Witch from which all Witches descend. I am the Sleeper. I am Dathomir.” She lowers herself into the water, submerging briefly, Mother Talzin’s hair fanning out, the ripples flaring green, gold, blue. She rises again, and it’s like Mother Talzin simply rinses away, and the being she is channeling takes her place.

Ben swallows down the bile that crawls up his throat at such a display of possession. His bones ache with pressure, and there is a taste on the back of his tongue, mineral and metallic -

She looks like a Nightsister, though taller than any he’s ever seen, standing easily taller than even Savage had, deep blue hair spilling from her crown, a spiked gold crown adorning her brow, like a Nightbrother’s horns, and her eyes – her eyes were nothing but that green fire.

Why is that so familiar?

“So many scars, so much _history_ ,” She muses, one hand tipped in an obsidian claw trailing a scant feathers-width over the mark on his bicep. “ and none at all. What _you_ are…. Now isn’t that the question?”

“Oh?” Ben prompts, feeling as if his shields are being as easily plied through as if they were no more than gossamer. Strange, unwelcome power wraps his bones, sinking into the very essence of what he is, he can’t even struggle against it. “What do you think I am?”

He may be panicking, a little – a lot, but his heart won’t pound, his blood won’t roar, for all that his mind feels as if it’s in a vice, as if -

“Oh, I can see this and that.” She teases, circling him. She’s not even touching him, but he can’t move, as if he’s bound. “So much loss, so much promise and potential.”

She dips her head near his ear. “I see desperation and control, and I see annihilation. Oh, you _are_ beautiful.” She comes full circle, wading in front of him. “The things you could _do_.” She shudders in delight, and Ben’s skin crawls in horror for that dread promise. “I see a sandstorm wrapped in skin. But I can’t see everything. Not yet.”

Ben notices that for all he can see himself in the water, and the stars that couldn’t be there, he can’t see her. She has no reflection.

“Something took pity on you.” She drifts back, leaning against the stone in the center of the pool, burning green gaze narrowing. “Are you confused?” She teases, flashing a smile that is rows and rows of obsidian teeth. The longer he looks at her, the more he tries to see her, the less sense seeing her makes – her skin ripples like silk in a breeze, silver as moonlight, her hair drifts, becomes wings, stretches into shadow, into water, coiling and writhing beneath the water, like- “Did you not once _ask_ how you came to be?”

“Generally speaking, when a female encounters a male of the species, and doesn’t take offense with his existence-“ Ben remarks snarkily, trying to distract himself from panic, trying to gain a second to pull his thought into order, to find leverage here-

 _Ask what? Ask who_?

“Be silent.” She commands, and Ben loses his voice.

There is a roaring in the back of his head, fire crawling up his insides, and he gasps for air, he can _feel_ himself breathing, and yet it’s like that isn’t true at all -

Her eyes narrow, her features seeming more skull-like, as if her skin were thinning into bone. She lowers her hands into the waters with purpose, and lifts them out holding a chalice. One half is clear crystal, and one half black like obsidian, swirling together to form the cup. Two effigies hold up the cup, distinct entities twisted together like two halves of a whole – the Winged Goddess, and the Fanged God. They remind him of the Daughter and the Son, but his instincts tell him that they are _not_ the same.

She holds the chalice out to him, and in the cup is water on fire, burning blue, and something lies in the bottom, but he can’t make it out. “Drink.” She commands.

Ben eyes the chalice, and eyes her. His thoughts come slow and hazy, if they come at all, and his body moves, but he does not feel in control.

He accepts the cup, cradling it in his hands. The chalice presses into his skin, the crystal freezing, leeching heat, the obsidian burning, searing. The pain is startling, almost overwhelming as it drives into him, deeper than physical pain. Ben can’t even flinch, let alone let go, and he lifts it to his lips, and prays it won’t kill him.

 _If I’m not already dead_ , he considers.

Things are not as they seem.

“ _This_ won’t kill you.” She answers with a husky chuckle. “Not yet. That would be so…disappointing. I want to see what you’re made of, first. _Drink_.”

Ben drinks.

It’s surprisingly not horrible, but more like mist than liquid, seeping down his throat, cloying and potent and choking. He coughs, buckling over, the chalice still irremovable from his hands, and in its basin he can see now what lay in the bottom – another effigy.

A child, curled like in a womb, wrought of pure, perfect silver.


	28. Chapter 28

“How did that Jedi come to raise you?” Her mother asks, voice drifting like a dreams. Asajj follows her over narrow bridges and winding boardwalk paths, entranced by every new thing she sees. A child rummaging berries from a bush in an overgrown pot ducks down, wide eyed, and stares at her as she passes, she sees a woman weaving on a loom through a window, spinning some red fiber that looks even finer than silk. Chimes clatter, hand carved pieces each unique, and she wonders at their purpose.

“The Siniteen who owned me died.” Asajj replies, feeling ickly at the memory. She’d been young enough to understand she was property, but not old enough to understand that it was _wrong_. She’d actually been sorry he was dead, for a time, actually missed him. She hadn’t understood, at first, why Ky flinched when she started calling him master, and insisted she call him something else.

_I’m not your master. Not as he was_.

He’d explained, carefully, awkwardly, and patiently, that it was abhorrent, that it was violating and cruel, to believe one sentient being could own another. He’d let her figure out the rest for herself. It had been the kindest thing he perhaps could have done. He never tried to change her mind for her, to force her to see the world as he saw it.

_I’m not the one who has to live your life, little one_. He’d told her, when she was older, when she demanded to know why he hadn’t just _told_ her. _What right would I have to make you hate someone who played such a large part of it? To tell you it was wrong to mourn them? You heart is your own. Breaking it would do neither of us any favors._

Her slavers part grows smaller and smaller every day, and Asajj takes vicious pleasure in that.

“Did you kill him?” Her mother asks.

“No.” Asajj replies, taken aback. She’d been a _child_.

“Pity.” Her mothers says, lifting her skirt with one hand and reaching back to take Asajj’s again, leading her up a set of steps in a stone wall. “Did the Jedi?”

“No. But he was there.” Asajj says, feeling disquieted as she takes her mothers chilled hand. “He took me in. Taught me how to use my power-“

“What does a Jedi know of your power?” He mother turns, blue eyes cold and flashing. “Nothing. What did he teach you? How to make it small and narrow and useful? Your power is not a tool, Asajj. It is who you are, it is everything you can be. It is freedom. What do Jedi know of that? Nothing. They build cages inside their hearts and inside their minds and tell themselves it makes them better than everyone else. That isn’t power.”

Asajj blinks widely up at her mother and bites her tongue, feeling her throat contrict as an ache spreads through her chest. Her mothers face softens.

“Oh, child.” Her mother croons, grip tightening on her daughters. “I’m sorry. I’ve just missed you so terribly. I hate that you were taken from me. I hate that you know so little of yourself. And I hate that Jedi, for raising you when it was _my_ right to do. Can you forgive me that?”

Not knowing what else to do, Asajj nods, and follows her mother up the stairs, through a crumbling arch which opens to the swamp, alight with hanging lamps the glowing waters, bridges and bungalows hanging like fruit and vines from the thick, thorn-like trees. Asajj can’t help the smile of wonder that overtakes her face, at the village unlike anything she’s ever seen.

Her mother sees her smile, and smiles too. “This is your home, Asajj.” She says. “Welcome _home_.” Tears glitter in her eyes, and they follow the dark tracks down her cheeks, and something in the sight of it leaves Asajj stricken.

“Mother.” She says, the word finally coming out, and reaches forward to catch a tear off her mothers cheek. Her mother cradles her hand and presses a kiss to it.

“I did not choose to give you up.” Her mother whispers, and the whispers seem to coil and claw around them. “The first thing you should know of our people is this; we are loyal to each other, and only each other. We love our sisters, and we obey our mother, and that is absolute. And a mother should be loyal to us in turn.” Anger snares her voice, turning it rough and rasping. “I loved you so much. You were mine. My child, my daughter, my _only_. And she made me give you up.”

Asajj does not know what to do with her mothers tears. “I – I’m here now, mother.”

Her mother shakes her head, fine hair floating wispily, and she cradles Asajj’s hand in hers, held delicately to her chest. Her eyes seem to burn, when she lifts again. “Yes.” She says, smiling. “Yes, you are.” She takes a deep breath and sighs, and leads her daughter onto the bridges. “You are, and you are more than I could have ever hoped for. Come. There is much more yet to see.”

~*~

Tholme’s thigh and back are beginning to ache, and beside him, Obi-Wan draws in a low hissing breath.

“You alright?” Tholme mutters, glancing aside. The padawan’s face is a few shades paler than it should be, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell – the boy is fair-skinned to begin with – and sweat beads and rolls down his brow. Tholme himself is sweat-damp and damp-damp, given the warm, humid atmosphere, but he can practically feel stress wafting off the youngest Jedi.

Obi-Wan bends forward and is immediately jabbed back upright with a grunt. “My hand.” He mutters. Tholme eyes his hands, the brace peaking out from under the vambrace, his wrist twisted awkwardly with the way they were bound, his ring and pinky-finger twitching spamatically. “Feels like it’s on fire.”

“We can make it actually on fire.” A witch teases, stepping abruptly in front of the boy and dropping into a crouch. The one who has suggested feeding them to the deep. “I think flames might match that pretty hair of yours.”

“I’ll thank you for the compliment.” Obi-Wan retorts, blue-green gaze flinty. “But I’ll have to respectfully decline the offer.”

“Leave him, Vanya.” The Nightsister who took charge of the patrol that captured them sighs, half her attention still focused on where Ventress and her mother had disappeared to, a tense line in her brow made more severe by her dark blue tattoos.

“ _Ysett_.” Vanya whines, dark grey eyes rolling beneath her red hood, the hilt of a sword peaking over her should which Tholme does not doubt she is well trained to use.

Ysett turns irritably, her dark silver braid slipping over her should, and snaps her fingers. A bright green spark flickers, and Vanya yelps as a glowing green spider suddenly crawls over her hand, jerking to her feet and trying to fling it off. Once her stumbling takes her out of reach of Obi-Wan, the spider dissolves into a wisp of green mist, and vanishes.

“Sister!” Vanya screeches indignantly.

“You were told.” Ysett says flatly. “Mother will decide what is to be done with them.”

Obi-Wan gasps, rocking forward, and Tholme tenses.

“Obi-Wan!” Quinlan snaps, rigidly straining against his bonds, but retrained under the threat of a well aimed plasma bow.

Obi-Wan gasps, like he can’t breathe.

“What’s wrong with him, what are you doing?” Master Narec demands.

“We’ve done nothing to him.” Ysett snaps, striding over and yanking the teenager’s head back by the hair.

“C-can’t- br-ea-“ Obi-Wan gasps. She frowns darkly, and lays a hand over his chest.

“I don’t understand.” The Nightsister scowls. “He isn’t hurt.”

“His master.” Quinlan says abruptly, lurching to his feet, eyes a searing, putrid yellow. “What’s being done to his master?” The Nightsister’s guarding him look very much like they want to put a plasma bolt in him, but they look to Ysett for direction. Quinlan snaps his bonds violently and stalks forward with dangerous intent.

Ysett does nothing more than lift a hand, palm flat out, and a massive, clawed grip of green mist takes hold of Quinlan, pinning him where he stands. “Don’t test me, you paltry excuse for a son of the Fanged One.” She hisses, her voice overlapping, piercing against their ears for all that it was no louder than a whisper.

Obi-Wan is still choking, and he retches. Ysett breaks her death-glare with Quinlan to take a disgusted step back as he vomits black water, which faintly glows blue. He coughs, blood staining his lips, and keeps retching, never seeming able to gasp in air.

Like he was drowning, without ever having touched water.

“ _Obi-Wan_!”


	29. Chapter 29

“By all the stars in the blasted sky, Ben, you’ve bled in this house more than I have, and that, mister, is saying something.” Beru chastises him brusquely.

“I – got lost.” He croaks, letting her manhandle him, tugging him out of his robe and beating the sand out of it before hanging it on the hook and marching him to the kitchen table.

“I’d say so.” Beru sighs, taking his chin in hand and turning his face this way and that, distress lighting her fair green eyes. She touches his cheek, and her fingertips come away smeared in blood, his face all scratched up. “You ought to know better than to be caught in such a storm.”

She grabs a water jug, and a cloth, and her med kit – the little one, for household scrapes, not the big one she had tucked in the lower cellar, the one they only used on things bad enough they generally needed a Singer for.

She rinses the cloth and carefully pats his face over, cleaning him up. His hands shake, even just sitting there, and he draws them under the table, where she won’t be looking at them. Her gaze just comes up to his eyes instead, studious and sorrowful of what she sees there, and Ben wishes he could hide that too.

“I’m going to tell you a story, Ben, and you are going to listen.” Beru says, and then presses a cup he wasn’t expecting to his lips, forcing a sip he still nearly chokes on, the water wetting the dust in his mouth, which he swallows reluctantly.

“There is freedom, in the deep desert, and there is life.” She says. “But no mercy.” She dabs at the wounds, which sting, and reaches her free hand under the table to grab hold of his trembling fingers. The wind howls outside the walls, sand scratching at the dome of her household, whipping and screaming, thunderheads rolling, the air charged with power.

“That outside is the Fury, Ben. Older than Ekkreth, older than Depur, older than Ar-Amu and all her children.” She tells him, squeezing his hand and then applying herself to frown disapprovingly at his state, and dab bacta on his wounds. “That is _Lukka_. Lukka is the sandstorm, both cleansing and damning. He shapes the world, and some claim he shapes the soul, and he can unshape them, and that is the truest thing to Justice some of us will ever know. It is said that long ago -”

“Maybe the storm should have taken me.” Ben utters desolately.

“Instead of dropping you on my door?” She lifts a blonde brow, seeming more surprised at his interruption than irritated, her fingers gently resting on his cheek, covered in bacta gel. “But then you’d receive no scolding and no succor, and where would be the justice in that?” She teases lightly, the tone not matching the sharp flash of critical concern that deepens her gaze.

He tries and fails to be touched by her gentle humor, when even her kindness hurts.

Beru clicks her tongue and sighs, smoothing the medicine into his skin. “Stories aside, I think justice cares little for you or I, Ben. I think it’s a grander thing than that, a transcendent thing, far beyond what we could ever see. I just think that sometimes we get lucky, and justice favors us.” She pauses, lips pursed. “Or disfavors those we do not like.”

Atrophied muscles twitch, a smile almost made. She catches it anyway, or the intent of it, and seems pleased.

“But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it cares very much. I’d like to hope so, Ben.” She looks to his eyes again, hers a fair green, a luminous green, a burning green. “I’d like to think Lukka listens to our prayers. I’d like to think that sometimes, he even answers them.”

Heat-

Searing metal-

The sandstorm, all wind and shadow and shredding glass, all that power, _screaming_ -

And he-

And he-

He gave it everything-

All his rage-

All his grief-

All his loneliness and guilt-

He gave it _everything_ -

He didn’t want it anymore.

Couldn’t bear it.

Couldn’t _be_ -

And something took pity on him.

Because when he came back to the world.

He -

~*~

“So _close_.”

A snarl.

Ben drifts, water pressing at his skin, tugging at his hair, creeping through his lips, catching on bubbles.

Weight, pulling him down, pulling him down-

_He is flying_

_Over a desert. And dotting the wasteland_

_Are oasis._

_A thousand upon a thousand verdant springs_

_But all_

_The wretched creatures drink_

_from a single well._

_He falls._

_Dropping from the sky like an end._

_Into the well,_

_and watches_

_The water swirl over and over him, turning_

_Black._

_He drowns._

_And they drink, and they drink, and they are poisoned._

_Because it is only from the well that they drink._

_And not the thousand upon a thousand verdant springs._

Disdain, displeasure, like claws raking over his skull.

“Prophecies are the worst kind of truth. They’re all history and warning, and they never tell you which is which. They’re never wrong, you see. But neither are they ever what they seem.”

He can hear her voice, clear as ever in his ears, but he’s so far underwater, isn’t that strange? That he can still hear-

“No prophecy is true only once. That’s the catch. They’re true and they’re true and they’re true, and it’s never the same truth.”

~*~

Gasping, choking, retching-

A faint glow of blue mist in a black, feelingless void. A young man on his knees, vomiting up water and blood, his hair like a brand of fire against the black, his clothes all light and shadow, his armor a burning green. He can’t breathe, and Ben walks towards him in a daze, his own chest heavy, as if pressed upon by a great weight, his fingertips numb. He’s not very aware of himself, and things seem…. distant.

A bond ties them together, him and the boy on his knees, he can’t see it at first, and then he can, a frayed thread stretched taught, lit by blue fire.

“Here we are. Finally.” The Witch murmurs, suddenly beside him, intrigued at the scene before her. Her smile stretches, all needle-like teeth and hunger, her eyes burning brightly. “I see the truth of you. Would you like me to tell you?”

 _No_ , Ben thinks, looking into her face, which was less and less of a face, and more of a maw. But it’s hard to think. The numbness is spreading, and it’s not just in his body. It’s in his mind as well. _No, you can’t_ -

The boy gasps and gasps, blood wheezing out onto his lips, water coming up, like he’s being crushed, like he’s drowning-

“You are afraid, down to the marrow. So much fury, so much sorrow, so much pain. There’s power in that, so much _power_ , and you are terrified of it. Such a pity.” She teases, hands drifting over that dimming line burning between him and the – and –

 _Obi-Wan_.

Ben blinks, something striking through the slurred haze inside of him.

 _Don’t touch him, you can’t touch him_ -

“Let me put your mind at ease.” She says, and Ben can feel his heart, slow and tired as it is, freeze and jump in his chest when her obsidian claws touch the strand, like she’s just reached inside his chest. “Let me tell you the truth.”

 _Don’t_. He screams, and there’s no sound at all. He wants to scream, and in fact he does nothing.

Her smile grows, and that vise in his chest tightens, and pain lances through his body, real enough to feel, like his bones are breaking, like his heart is – like his heart is stopping.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi…” She says, voice lilting and cruel. “…belongs to your precious _Light_ , forever and always. The stars know this, and so do you. Darkness will never have him. More is the shame, strong as he is.”

She turns, gripping that fragile bond tight, and turns her hollow, eerie gaze on him.

“But _you_ … You are _not_ Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

The tether snaps, fire guttering out, and Obi-Wan gasps, heaving air into his lungs, set free.

Ben – Ben is the one drowning.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Because the author _loves_ waking up to discouraging commentary. ~* sarcasm*~  
> Some of you, I think, need to go back to Chapter 27. 
> 
> This chapter is posting early for all of those people who are awesome and keep me from losing all interest in my own writing by how absolutely thrilled and into it you get. I adore you, and thank you for your patience and perseverance - i know there are a lot of cuts and cliffs in this section, and it's not so much that i want to leave you hanging so much as it is that when taken all together, that's where i want my scenes to cut for the purpose of where follow on chapters interject. It's less distressing once it's all posted, but while it's live...yeah.

Obi-Wan sucks in air, the burning in his chest disappearing, the crushing weight lifting away, and something else, something deep inside – felt like it was tearing, a blinding white pain behind his eyes, like roots being ripped out of soil, like a bond being torn from his-

“No!” Obi-Wan shouts, horrified, and looks up, and his master is standing there with a look of fury on his face.

“You can’t take him from me.” Master Ben snarls. “I won’t let him go!”

“No?” Obi-Wan can see her now, who is master is shouting at, a giant of a Nightsister – but not a Nightsister. Blue hair flows vividly from her head, and golden horns are wrought in a crown upon it, and inside her – fire. Green, blazing fire, and nothing mortal at all.

 _I don’t believe in gods_. Obi-Wan tells himself.

“You think that choice is yours?” She turns, and the gaze of the thing standing there turns to _him_. Obi-Wan feels his heart stutter, and some dread warning washes over him.

“I won’t interfere with the work of others.” She turns back to Master Ben, whose body doesn’t seem right, too pale, half immaterial. “There are consequences even for the likes of me. But you should take the truth for what it is.” She warns. “Or you will fail.”

Obi-Wan can still taste blood and water on his lips.

“Master!” Obi-Wan shouts. “Wake up!”

Master Ben looks to him, as if through a haze, as if through _water_ -

Obi-Wan presses a hand to his own chest, to that searing, fraying, hurting connection inside. It’s not any bond he recognizes, but it’s deep, and it ties him to the man who changed his life.

Right now it feels like a wound, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes, reaching for it, trying to reconnect-

And the other side recoils.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, glaring at his master for being an _idiot_ when Obi-Wan was trying to _help_. Something was _wrong_.

_Could he not for once just trust me? Could he not for once just let me in?_

“Wake up!” Obi-Wan shouts at him. It wasn’t his blood staining his lips. He wasn’t the one under water. His master was not standing in front of him. His master was _drowning_. “Wake up and fight!”

Obi-Wan blinks, and his master isn’t there, and the woman who was not a woman at all had disappeared too.

Obi-Wan slumps, shuddering, and coughs the last bit of fluid and who knows what from his lungs. He spits, and off all the things to have mysteriously attempting to choke him, he could have done without the grains of golden sand that turn his mouth gritty.

 _I thought I - He - was drowning_. Obi-Wan thinks peculiarly. _Where the hell did that come from?_

“What is wrong with you people?” Master Narec mutters. “I don’t remember being a Jedi being this karking complicated.” He eyes Obi-Wan warily, and with concern.

Master Tholme snorts, and Quinlan laughs, and Obi-Wan gives them all a peeved look, feeling ragged.

“Welcome to changing times.” Quinlan smirks, back on his knees and bound by a glowing green rope Ysett had created.

Obi-Wan catches his breath, waiting until it stops feeling like claws gouging at his lungs, and then pushes himself to his feet. The Nightsisters hadn’t even bothered to take their lightsabers, so Obi-Wan unclips his from his belt.

“Not another step, little jedi.” Vanya hisses, drawing her sword. “Try it and die.”

“I am going after my master.” Obi-Wan says implacably, glaring past her, up to the closed doors above them.

“Let him go, Vanya.” Ysett commands, an unreadable look in her pale eyes.

“They trespass already!” The younger Nightsister seethes. “He is _not_ going into the Temple.”

Ysett draws in a breath for temperance, and offers the younger Nightsister a scathing, irritated look. “The Sleeper is awake. Either his master will pass the test or not. Let him go.”

“No Jedi could pass the test.” Vanya sneers.

“What happens if he doesn’t pass?” Obi-Wan asks, knuckles white over his lightsaber.

“What do you think?” Ysett snaps, clearly as ruffled by the mere existence of men as she was by the disobedience of her counterpart. “He dies.”

“I thought a dead Jedi was more trouble than it was worth?” Tholme grunts.

“ _We_ won’t have killed him.” Ysett counters, lifting her chin defiantly.

“He’ll pass.” Obi-Wan says, refusing the let any other outcome have viability.

Ysett looks at him, with something that is _almost_ pity. Obi-Wan clenches his jaw, and starts up the stairs.

“Argh!” Vanya growls angrily, but lets him go.

~*~

 _Wake up and fight_!

Ben jerks opening his eyes to darkness and wavering light, to the crushing pressure of deep water, and the more crushing weight of slimy limbs wrapped around his body. Great, fat tentacles draw him down, and he thrashes, seeing his fate as he comes closer and closer to a maw full of glittering teeth, over which rested two large, bulbous, glowing eyes and serrated, spearing limbs, the illusions shattering.

Light dances at the edges of his vision, spotting, going black – he’s drowning, he’s been drowning, while whatever it was that haunted Dathomir whispered in his ears, and blinded his eyes. He has no doubt that it all happened – that whatever had possesses Mother Talzin, whatever she had channeled, was real, that the chalice had been real, that the visions-

You are _not_ Obi-Wan Kenobi-

 _I know that_ , Ben insist to himself. _I gave that up_.

_Didn’t I?_

_Ben!_

He scolds himself, because he can very well wallow in his thoughts _later_ \- _if_ he lives - and draws on his inner reserves of strength, trying to break free, for all that it feels so futile. This creature in the deep was no mere beast.

Ben shoves, his limbs about useless, his head fit to burst for want of air, and lashes out with the Force.

The beast flinches, and then its limbs squeeze tighter, and he feels a bone break, pain bursting like a line of fire. He’d gasp, but there isn’t any air left in his lungs.

 _Come on, Ben. Come on. You are_ not _going to be eaten_!

“You know what needs to be done.” The Witch whispers, like a ripple, like a hand brushing through his hair to cradle his brow.

_\- Anakin, arms uplifted, the world turning at his will, the Son and the Daughter, on their knees -_

_No_! Ben screams in his mind, because he knows what she’s asking. Ben is no Chosen One, and the only way he’d get that creature to submit to him, the only way-

A scythe-like limb reaches for him, he having been drawn close enough in, and Ben can see where this will go, can see it spear him, serrated limb tearing through flesh and bone, feeding him into the maw of teeth, and maybe he’d be dead already, before they started shredding skin and meat-

 _You could use a less analytical imagination_. He growls at himself, his struggling weak and feeble, barely any room to move and barely any will left to do so. He can’t even suck in water and drown because he doesn’t have the room needed to expand his lungs, he is just suspended in this moment, kept aware by the Force and the stubborn instinct to survive.

 _Is this what it was all for_?

The Temple flashes before his eyes, small bodies drifting in the water. The scree slope, the lava falls-

 _Anakin_.

Vader.

 _So this is how liberty dies_. Padme. _With thunderous applause_.

Ben can hear it – the thunder of clapping, a roar in his ears, celebrant of their own downfall, of their own destruction, lauding it like _fools_. All of them, fools.

And laughter; that slow, grating, satisfied chuckle.

 _I wasn’t there. I didn’t hear this_.

But it was real.

And he dreamed of it. It haunted his nightmares. Chased him through the dunes. Broke his focus in meditation. Choked him and stole his words away when he tried to speak of it. Woke him in a cold sweat with terror running down his spine because –

Darth Sideous was still out there.

It was all still out there, spanning ahead of him like the maw below him, waiting to swallow the galaxy.

_I can’t fail again._

_I can’t fail again._

_I can’t fail again._

_I won’t._


	31. Chapter 31

When his head breaks the surface with a gasp and choking sputter, Talzin can say she is genuinely surprised, but not displeased.

The shape of him, the moment she laid eyes on him, had marred the world around him, and looking at him – she could see nothing inside him. A nothingness that had spanned and yawned, no future, no past.

Now she knows why.

Who he is is a cheat – he is _no one_. He is real, to be sure, and human, so far as she can ascertain, and he has a name, and a purpose; but his past - meaningful as it may be - is meaningless to his identity as it is connected to the galaxy, and his destiny – he has none. Whatever his destiny was – and all things touched by Force and Magik had one – no longer belonged to him. There was simply nothing ahead and nothing behind which her gifts alone would allow her to see. But the Night Witch…eons dead, and her powers were still simply _more_ than those of her descendants.

And as for _what_ he is – harbinger indeed.

Still, she had not _meant_ to wake the Sleeper from the deeps. But once it had him, well… she had been curious. If he truly wished to ally himself with her and her clan, would it not be best if they understood each other a little better? Then let him face the Test, which all Nightsister’s faced. Let him face the Sleeper.

If she has to deal with another self-aggrandizing man from a far flung morass of so called civilization, let alone subject her clan to his presence, she’d rather he prove himself first.

She would not cross the Sith lightly, and the promises of Jedi could be so…ephemeral.

He swims slowly, with rough, halting gasps for air, until his feet brush the bottom, and then he limps. Talzin lifts a stately brow in response to his glower, burning with tightly leashed violence for what he has just had to do, and listens to the tread of footsteps in the corridor behind her. His pale, freckled skin is a mottle of deep bruises, all angry red and purple, and it looks like the Sleeper did get him by the shoulder, a deep, tearing cut slashing right to the bone.

“Did you kill it?” She inquires, shifting the edge of her robe, already having redressed. Many did – it simply never stayed dead. So long as Dathomir had power, the falls would flow, and the Sleeper would remain.

“No.” He snaps, wincing as he reaches the steps, blood sluicing down his frame, turning pink as the rivulets mixed with water and ran down his legs. It looked like his arm was broken too, as well as a rib or three. No matter – it could be fixed.

“…master?”

Ah, yes, the boy. _That_ boy.

The man stops attempting to climb the stairs and leave the water, the effort and the lack of buoyant support no doubt defeating him. “Padawan.” He greets blankly, and then, with accusation, recalls the cause of his state which was currently giving his padawan pause. “This witch got me naked so that a giant _monster_ would have an easier time _eating_ me. Help me up here.”

“Why else would I disrobe you, Jedi?” Talzin inquires reproachfully. In truth she’d gotten him naked because that was simply the way it was done – there was a spiritual unveiling in the physical act of baring oneself, and it was integral to rites such as this - and because she wasn’t providing him any dry clothes on the way out.

His padawan makes a choked sound, shuffling towards the water, splashing heedlessly down the stairs, and the Master gives her a narrow eyed look of indignation.

She cackles. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jedi. You’re not much to look at.”

It’s the master’s turn to make a choked sound, which breaks into a groan of pain as he has his padawan help lower him to sitting. Talzin sighs, drawing her feet out of the pool reluctantly, ever eager for the potency of the connection to the planet’s power.

“I’ve heard that before.” He grunts. “Obi-Wan _don’t_ -“ He hisses to clenched teeth, swallowing a worse display of pain, and his padawan flinches.

“Sorry.”

“Just get my pants.”

“Master – you’re really hurt.”

“He can be repaired.” Talzin informs the boy succinctly, staring down at them both with impatience. Really, must they make a fuss and show of such minor inconveniences? All that power tied up inside them, and they never did anything _useful_ with it. “Lie him down.”

“Pants first.” The man insists.

Resisting a sigh, Talzin waits. It would simply be more expedient would he just lie down and let her repair his body. Jedi and their sheer desire to suffer were _abominable_.

“So, er… big monster?” The padawan inquires. Talzin looks him over, seeing all his brimming potential lashed by annoying ideals and self-employed restrains, his destiny a kaleidoscope of broken branches and unspun paths and burning new possibilities, his power almost too much for his young body.

Power was a terrible thing to combine with youth, just as like to shape the will as the will was to shape the power, warping both. At least the daughters of Dathomir were of age before they were Tested, and their potential drawn forth. No wonder the Jedi were so dreadfully intent of rigid control – without it, she could imagine the quiet fray into madness, the delicate and unkind dichotomy upon which they tread tearing them to pieces, with the way they did things. So much talk of balance, and yet so little of it inside their teachings.

“Like a Sarlacc. Underwater.” His master grunts, eyes nearly rolling up in his head as he’s jostled, but finally the pants are over his hips. Talzin lowers herself and pushes him to the stone.

“Oh, you’ll kill me yet.” He wheezes out breathlessly, chest hitching, hands coming up to hover futilely over broken ribs.

“Not intentionally.” She returns dryly, and shares a bit of wisdom with the padawan. “The Sleeper is Hunger, boy. It is want and consumption, waiting and decay, and it is never satisfied.”

“It sounds… ” The boy grimaces, not wanting to finish the thought.

Talzin levels the boy with an unimpressed look, feeling the energies around her, the depths of Dathomir’s power, and the echoes of all the Nightsisters before her, who were given back to that which gave them life. “All things must feed.”

He frowns, but looks thoughtful. Perhaps there is hope for that one yet. Talzin looks down, and offers the jedi master a thin-lipped smile. “This _will_ hurt.” She informs him.

“Ng. Lovely.” He mutters. “I thought it mi-“

~*~

Fay is reluctant to break up what is quite clearly an excruciatingly humbling reminiscence, but as Padawan Skywalker is so consistently occupied, she must or she must miss her chance, and they would continue passing each other by.

Preoccupation and distraction were dangerous companions for one so long lived as she – wherein putting something off for a day may result in her in fact putting it off for a decade, which was rather less convenience for her shorter-lived counterparts.

The zygerrian Knight looks painfully relieved when she stepped over to their table in the Dining Hall, Padawan Skywalker with a brightly amused and teasing smile on her face, and their young togruta companion is near bent into her companions shoulder for her mirth, montrals humming with the giggles she was trying to contain. Clearly, the two females are overwhelming the poor fellow.

“Pardon my intrusion, but may I steal Padawan Skywalker away?” Fay inquires.

The togruta takes a breath to compose herself before looking up, and Shmi Skywalker’s smile dims, her presence fading into quiet.

Oh. _Oh_.

Anakin Skywalker burned with power, and it had teased Fay that she had not noticed it immediately, but every time one attempted to look closer – well; it should be said that the boy was bold enough, but he did not preen under scrutiny. Others his age would – well aware that such scrutiny may be coming for a potential Master – but he, instead, shied back. Not physically - but in all the ways that truly mattered, and as such his power seemed much less than it was.

Now she knows who he learned such peculiar behavior from.

 _Peculiar_ , Fay thinks, _but impressive shields_.

“Does the council require something, Lady Fay?” Padawan Skywalker inquires, looking up at her with a sharp brown gaze.

“This is not pertaining to a Council matter, no, and please, _just_ Fay.” Though she does rather like the less odious title, something about it seems…off. Fay also grumbles internally at the machinations of her grandpadawan which enlisted her to a Councilors chair.

Nearly two-thousand years she has avoided such an appointment, and at last she is entrapped.

“I was rather hoping to discuss your son, if you would oblige.” Fay glances at the Zygerrian Knight, and the Togruta Padawan, blinks, looks back to Padawan Skywalker, and shortly finds her gaze wanting to slide away again.

 _Most impressive shields_.

“Which?” The young mother asks quietly, her body tightening, her gaze taking on a more critical edge.

Fay is at a loss. “I…wasn’t aware you had more than one. My apologies, I was hoping to speak with you about young Anakin.”

“He is a bit too young yet for apprenticeship.” The zygerrian knight comments, one ear twitching at his companions palled demeanor.

“And I have been told he is all but spoken for besides.” Fay smiles, amused. “Not to worry, I don’t intend to poach him from his prospective teacher.”

There is still a troubled shadow in the mother’s gaze, but she nods, and extracts herself from the table and her companions, collecting her empty tray. “Has Anakin done something wrong?” She asks, as Fay falls into step with her.

“No –“ Fay pauses, considering, and tips her head a little ruefully. “ not that I am addressing.” She corrects herself. “But I believe you have to have noticed that your sons connection to the Force is above and beyond his peers.”

Shmi returns her tray to the receptable and turns on Fay with a blank expression, her body language all caution and tension, her measure in the Force little more than a mirage. “He does well in his lessons.” His mother agrees neutrally, and says nothing more than that.

Fay stops herself from frowning, sensing that there are angles and perceptions to this conversation which she herself is not aware of. She falls quiet as well, and together they make their way to the gardens, where Shmi strides to the largest fountain and sits on the stone edge.

“The same could be said of me, when I was his age. And when I was his age – parsecs beyond, when I was _your_ age – neither I nor any of my teachers could know what that would come to mean.” Fay says gently, settling herself beside the younger woman, who seems at first startled, and then begins to relax.

And then she pales, looking Fay in the face. _Looking_ at her.

Shmi Skywalker is a genius, after all.

“I have no designs to be your sons master, Padawan Skywalker, but nonetheless there is much I believe with which I can help you. Both of you.” Fay offers.

“He’s _just_ a boy.” Shmi utters, her fingers curled around the stone, tendons in her hands taught.

“Yes.” Fay acknowledges, feeling for her. “He is.”


	32. Chapter 32

Obi-Wan watches his master redress with consternation, a thousand burning questions bubbling up inside. His master slows, pausing when it comes to his chest plate, brow furrowed as he studies the suns on his armor thoughtfully.

Obi-Wan shifts, looking down. His master was tense and tightlipped, and that never boded well.

“Where did the cost come from?” Obi-Wan asks, eyeing the Nightmother warily. “Everything I’ve ever learned of healing says that that – well, it’s not _impossible_ , but you can’t get something for nothing. Healing especially requires energy and fuel.” And she didn’t look as if the effort had tired her at all, nor did his master. He’d been horrified, at first, watching the bone in his master’s arm knit back together, watching the flesh seal up, sickly certain that she must be stretching bone and stripping the materials required from the rest of his master’s body, but… but his master was _fine_.

“True.” Mother Talzin deigns to reply. “But your perception of the abilities of the unseen powers is narrow, Padawan, a fault of your teachings.”

“Hey.” Master Ben cuts her a glare, finally donning his chest plate. She returns his look with flat amusement before turning back to Obi-Wan, the ends of her robe fluttering eerily.

“Such gifts cannot be attenuated down to a simple transaction. You know too much, and you should let that go.”

“Er…?”

“You know what his bones are made of, his muscles, his blood, if you know anything of healing, perhaps you can even measure the calcium and the protein and the iron – but that hardly matters. What you do is deeper than that. Ultimately, his flesh is only energy, as is all the world, and everything we believe it is made of is only an illusion – the trappings of a limited existence. There is no difference to channeling the energy that constructs him than there is to channeling the energy to move a stone your body could never have lifted.”

“But…” Obi-Wan bites his tongue, as impatience flashes in her eyes. _Stop believing things are impossible_ , he reminds himself. Has he not himself preached that lesson to others? “Isn’t it? His cells are alive – he’s alive,” He shoots his master an apologetic look for discussing him like an object, but Obi-Wan is curious. “Living things are different-“

“Are they?” She arches a brow. Obi-Wan stares back at her.

“Of course.” He insists. “You can’t just pull life apart and put it back together.”

“Perhaps Jedi can’t.” She muses.

Obi-Wan scowls, crossing his arms. He doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going. Life was sacred, even if you could manipulate it as if it were something as ordinary a stone, to actually do so would be….horrific.

_But she healed him._

_That kind of power could save lives._

_And end them_.

Obi-Wan chews his lip, conflicted.

She smiles, indulgent and condescending at the same time. “Mind your perceptions, boy.” She tells him. “If you truly understood the power you possess, you would understand that there is no difference between so called light and dark, between life and death, and you would be capable of so much more.”

“That’s not true!” Obi-Wan refutes.

“Padawan.” Master Ben clips out.

“Such things are only as you perceive them to be, they have only the meaning you give them, but _what_ they are – that remain absolute.”

“Mother Talzin.” Master Ben interjects. “Perhaps we could move on?” He requests tersely, gesturing towards the corridor, and the return to the world above them. She nods stately, and proceeds them.

Master Ben puts a hand on his shoulder, and Obi-Wan looks over at him. His master sighs. “The Nightsisters power, as I have understood it, Padawan, is very much rooted in the Living Force, and their philosophy, as she has said, recognizes neither Light nor Dark.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Obi-Wan argues. “We _know_ that there is Light and Darkness, that there is Life and there is Death.”

“As beings that live and die, that choose between goodness and evil, yes.” His master agrees slowly, thinking it through himself. “But what would those mean from a perspective outside our own?”

“I…I’m not sure I get it.”

“Ha. I’m not sure I do either.” His master admits ruefully, looking troubled. “But… if the Force had a will, if it was sentient and it debated such things…being what the Force is, what would life and death, light and darkness mean to it?”

“I… I don’t know.” Obi-Wan says. “That’s… a mind twister, master. I’d have to meditate on it.”

“So would I.” Master ben sighs, and nudges Obi-Wan into walking ahead of him. “But the Nightsisters consider their power not as an ability they possess, but as something they channel from powers far beyond themselves.”

“Isn’t that dangerous master?” Obi-Wan frowns, recalling old lessons about being careful not to lose yourself in the Force, being careful not to bridge connections with things outside yourself whose natures you do not know. Then, of course, were the old legends about the Wild Force, a philosophy long ago fallen out of favor, and poor souls whose entire essence was subsumed, their bodies becoming mere vessels, a conduit for the universe. They could do unimaginable things, and those things destroyed them.

“Oh, absolutely. But so too are the Nightsisters. All powerful things are.”

Obi-Wan turns just enough to give his master a disgruntled look, and the older man smiles at him, but there is something strained in the expression, and unease tightens the padawans chest. Something deep inside still hurts, and Obi-Wan turns back, rubbing at his sternum as if it might help. He seeks out the master-padawan bond in his mind, taking comfort that it still burned brightly between them, and wondered why he still felt like something had been lost.

~*~

“Let them up.” The Temple doors swing open and the Nightmother reappears, shortly followed by the two Mandalorian jedi, and Ky feels his chest loosen in relief.

“He couldn’t have passed!” Vanya, the Nightsister swordswoman, protests. The Nightmother offers her a short, irritable look, and the younger woman scowls ferociously, looking down in submission. “Yes, mother.” She mutters, as the archers stand down. Ky snaps the bonds holding his arms and shakes the cordage free, handing it back to a discontent witch.

Tholme groans standing up and his padawan is at his side in a second, helping him up with a quiet, snide remark about his age that earns him a sharp green glare and only seems to delight the teenager. Ky snorts softly at the pair, and looks wistfully and worriedly to where his own padawan had disappeared into the turning paths and shifting mists.

“Where is Asajj?” Mothe Talzin inquires.

“Assassi has taken her.” The Witch Ysett replies quickly, her voice low and measured, smoother than Ky’s padawans. “Mother-“

“It is her right.” Mother Talzin cuts off her complaint, and Ysett nods, but still looks contemplative and troubled, glancing too to where Asajj had left with her mother. “That one, bring him.”

She points to Padawan Vos, who stiffens, his sickly yellow eyes almost like flares in the gloom. Master Tholme stiffens, half stepping before the young man to shield him.

“Mother?” Ysett inquires cautiously.

Talzin looks over her uneasy daughters and lifts her chin, and her voice. “The Jedi have returned a daughter us. They wish there to be an understanding between the Nightsister’s and the Order. We shall see if this can be done. Allow them among us, let them learn, if they can, and observe them – see if they are to be judged worthy.” She says, voices overlapping voices, tone brooking no argument.

The Nightsisters lower they heads with a few disgruntled and uneasy – and in some cases, hostile – glances, and there is a muttering chorus of ‘Yes, mother’s.

“That one is unstable. Bring him.” Mother Talzin instructs again. “I’ll not have him among our daughters as he is.”

“I am _not_ -“ Padawan Vos squawks, bristling.

“Quinlan.” Master Naasade cuts in, with an imploring and somewhat pointed look. “Master Tholme.” Naasade adds, imploring the boy’s teacher. Padawan Vos’s gaze turns hot and accusing at the manipulation, and he jerks away from the hand his master lifts to his shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“You aren’t going to do to him what you did to me, are you?” Naasade asks quietly, and Ky wonders, immensely, what exactly the Nightmother did to him.

“That will not be necessary. He is to be purified.” Mother Talin says, setting off alarm bells in Ky’s brain. That does not sound good.

“Excuse me?” Quinlan snaps, anger warring with a sudden shift of wariness. Moonlight eyes alight on him with quelling focus and disdain.

“You are rife with corruption and chaos. It taints even your physical form. You must be very beloved, for the Jedi to allow you to survive as you are.” She cuts a scathing glance at the Jedi Master’s before her. “It is not their typical way. Come, we shall see what can be done.”

“Is this why I’m here?” Padawan Vos demands, cutting a glare to Master Naasade.

“I do have hope that they can help you.” Naasade nods tightly. “Though I’m not sure as to the method…” He frowns at Mother Talzin, who nearly rolls her eyes, so very displeased that they are still _discussing_ this.

She gathers one edge of his skirt, turns and ascends back to the temple. “Ysett.” She calls back directively. The younger witch steps across and levels Padawan Vos with a cool, impassive look. “You can walk by your power, or by mine, but you _are_ going.” She tells him warningly, and then makes eye contact with several of her sisters, who nod and quickly follow their Mother.

Ky makes eye contact with Tholme, who is quite plainly the only understandable Jedi of the lot, and who clearly feels just as bereft of control at the moment as Ky does.

Tholme meets his gaze in resigned solidarity, blinks, and turns to his padawan with resolve, stepping up beside him, for all the younger padawan radiates prickly aggression. “Quinlan.” He whispers. “I am with you.”

The padawan breaks his glaring match with the young witch and glares down at the ground instead. “Are you regretting that yet?” He asks snidely, full of loathing, both inward and outward.

“Well, there are those nights I’ve been woken in the dark to discover you were in jail.” Tholme reminisces, crossing his arms, expression dry as dust. “There was the time you got _me_ arrested. The glitter I can’t remove from our apartments. And then the… _incident_ , with Master Lysa-“

The padawan chokes, flushing, and turns a mortified look on his master. “That was – you swore not to – I was fifteen!”

Tholme lifts a formidable brow, and his padawan balks, turns, and stomps up the stairs.

“Are you coming?” He demands, once he’s nearly at the doors, cheeks still tinted.

Relief flashes across Tholme’s presence in the Force, and he nods, following.

“Are all Jedi so dramatic?” Ysett grumbles, taking up after them.

“Oh, no.” Master Naasade replies, and she starts, clearly not have intending for anyone to have paid attention to that. The mandalorian master stiffly lowers himself to sit on the stone steps, and his padawan frowns worriedly at him, arms crossed. “Some are far, far more dramatic than we are.”

“Liar.” Padawan Kenobi mutters. “What – what exactly is she going to do to Quinlan?” He entreats the witch, radiating worry. She gives him a short look, very nearly ignoring him, but ultimately, Ky was learning that everyone found it difficult to ignore Padawan Kenobi.

“He will be bathed in the Waters of Life.” She finally says. “If he is fortunate, the waters will offer him clarity, and clarity will wash clean that which corrupts his connection to himself.”

With that, she leaves them, the Temple doors closing in her wake.

Ky blinks, and then crosses his arms. “Did we not just go through this?” He asks, gesturing to the closed doors above them, and the disappeared members of their party. “If they try and drag me in there next, I’m not going.”

“That’s probably wise.” Padawan Kenobi replies, staring at the closed doors.

Naasade, Ky notes apprehensively, is too deep in thought to have registered the question. Whatever he experienced, it clearly settled heavily on his mind.

 _Well_ , he thinks himself. _We're all in it now_.

For better or worse, it appeared they were now _staying_ on Dathomir.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: To all my readers in Australia, I hope you, your homes and families are safe, and stay safe, and that everyone pulls through the fires. _K'oyaci._

_Your life is a patchwork._

_Your sense of self a guess more than a reality_.

Quinlan’s skin has been crawling practically from the moment they reached Dathomir. Whispers teased at his ears, like he really needed any more of those, and power had leeched through everything. But the nature of that power… both the Light and the Dark teased him, Dathomir’s strength somewhere in the murk in between.

He misses the Temple. He misses the stark simplicity. There, the divisions were clear, and it was all easier.

 _Childish_.

_Life is not black and white._

_You do wish to live, don’t you_?

The creepiness is not alleviated by the Witches having him climb up onto a stone table and lie down, the memories on it beyond comprehension, so old and far-reaching and vivid. Blood, birth, death, sacrifice –

He doesn’t know what, exactly, the Water’s of Life are, other than bowls that gleamed green, emitting a vapor that seemed to drive itself into his lungs, and seep right into his thoughts, and swallow the world.

 _Cages and reflections and uninvited guests_.

 _Is anything in your head actually yours_?

Quinlan hates that question.

Because the answer is unclear.

 _A better question: Were any of the choices you’ve made actually yours_?

Quinlan jolts in distress, his awareness sloshing about, memories dredged up from forgotten recesses.

“ -ome here, Quinlan, come _here_.” Great Aunt Tinte, a severe grey face over trailing shawls. “Your mother and father are gone, now.”

People kept telling him that. They kept saying it, but it couldn’t be true, it didn’t feel real. They were just here. Mother had just kissed him goodbye, Father had just told him to mind his lessons, no matter how boring, and then tossed him air, making him shriek before giving him a hug. They were going to be back in a few days. Just a few days.

“Come, child.” A gleam, and she holds something out to him – his parent’s Guardian medals, polished clean. “Take these.”

 _No, no no no_. His mind protests, but the memory persists. He had taken them, and in them had been – blood – Father screaming – the Anzati – his mother’s last, ragged exhale – pain; fear and pain – and over and over and o-

He dropped them, the disks clattering on the flagstones.

“Pick them up!”

“No!”

“Pick them up.” She’d grabbed him the hair, wrenching. Quinlan had cried, and picked them up.

Aunt Tinte had wrapped her hands around his, black eyes pitiless, forcing him to hold on with a painful grip, until he could taste the blood in the back of his father’s throat, choking him, lungs drowning, until he could feel the life leaving his mother’s body, her struggles failing, until their pain was his pain, their fear his fear, until their murders where the only thing he knew-

Until Darkness chased out everything else.

It was Tholme who drew him out of it, holding the boy tight, keeping him safe, soothing him. His Great Aunt had meant to break him, had meant to destroy any chance he’d ever have of challenging her new rule – the rule stolen from his parents by their deaths, and Tholme had saved him, taken him to the Temple, turned him into a Jedi.

_A path was always set for you._

_By your parents._

_By your great aunt._

_By your beloved Master_.

He’d known Tholme would train him, when he was old enough, knew it with every fiber of his being – even if Tholme hadn’t. It had protected him, that knowledge, from the seed of Darkness that had taken root.

And that was all it had been, a poisonous seed, with nothing on which to grow. The Jedi gave him a good life, and Tholme a good home.

Until…

Cloth unspooling on a floor, a lightsaber hilt revealed.

 _I don’t want to harm anybody_. He reaches for it, knowing it’s wrong. _I just want to know_.

He touched it, and the stars exploded, the world turned to fire and quiet and devastating loneliness, a hundred broken bonds, a thousand, war and violence and death and voices – not mere voices – ghosts, echoes, clawing their way inside him, taking root, _becoming_ –

_It is the memories of the things which once were which make us who we are -_

_And most of your memories aren’t yours at all_.

 _So you bottled them up and stuck them away and that was the most foolish thing you could have done. You turned fragments into specters inside of your own self and cut your spirit to pieces trying to make sure they couldn’t take hold of it_.

_Perhaps it saved your sanity._

_But your soul_?

That voice. He knows that voice, doesn’t he?

 _Are you sure you want to see who you are_?

_Take them all away, and what remains?_

_Not much, I’d wager_.

Quinlan hadn’t wanted to forget. He hadn’t wanted to feel unanchored, to not know why he felt colder, lonelier, bitterer. He hadn’t wanted to wander around and not know the reason he’d be looked upon with caution and fear, like a bomb waiting to go off, why his peers would shy away, why masters would watch him with suspicion. Why darkness would be whispering in the back of his head, stronger than ever before. He knows it would have happened – it did, after all. But it was better to know _why_ , than to look inside himself and find only _doubt_.

But it was different now. He didn’t need Naasade’s memories to make sense of it – he had his own aplenty. Why he was Fallen mattered less now than the simple understanding that he _was_. That there was Darkness inside him.

And that not all of it came from other people.

He has to stop hiding from that.

 _Try me_. Quinlan thinks, letting himself relax, forcing himself to stop fighting, even with shadows writhing in the back of his mind, scrabbling at his skull, stealing the breath from his lungs in desperation, trying to convince him to _escape, run, hide, survive_.

It laughs at his bravado, and Quinlan breathes in deep, vapor filling his lungs.

_It’s not so dramatic as all that._

_Just… keep breathing_.

~*~

Obi-Wan is half asleep on his master’s shoulder when the Temple doors finally open again. The lamps along the bridges and walkways have all dimmed, though some windows on the stone dwellings spilled light, and the faint red glow of the sky darkened into black velvet above them, the occasional star visible through the streaking clouds. Master Narec had taken to pacing, his gaze constantly drawn towards the direction of his padawan.

Master Tholme trudges out, an unconscious Quinlan draped over his back and shoulders, the older Jedi grunting as he takes the steps.

“Is he alright?” Obi-Wan asks, lurching to his feet with a wince, having been sitting on the stone steps for hours. He’d been able to feel Quinlan some, through their bond, but then it had gotten….hazy, and he’d had the great sense that he was an unwelcome witness, and had drawn back into himself.

“He was delirious, and then…” Tholme shakes his head. “He hasn’t woken, but I feel he’s…there is less turmoil and conflict inside him. We’ll see.”

“He will be well.” The witch Ysett insists dully, gliding down the stairs to them with great reluctance and begrudging. “I am to find you a shelter. Follow me.”

Master Ben rises, still half away with his thoughts, though he too grimaces when his back and legs complain. “Tholme, would you like me to…?” He offers, gesturing to Quinlan, and Tholme nods. Master Ben simply lifts the teen – who really was too tall for Master Tholme to carry like that – with the Force and floats him. Tholme adjusts Quinlan’s arms so they aren’t hanging down, and to Obi-Wan it looks as if the other padawan is being carried by an unseen river.

“Why you?” Obi-Wan asks, falling into step behind the Nightsister, who showed no inclinaton to wait on them.

“I found you and thus you are my responsibility.” The woman replies. “It would hardly be reasonable to foist you off on someone else, would it?”

“Well, Padawan Ventress…?”

“You should be her responsibility, yes.” The Nightsister remarks, and Obi-Wan tries to accommodate himself to the fact that she is ahead of him and looking away, and yet her voice whispers just behind his ear, in a cacophony of quiet echoes. “But she does not yet have a place among us, and she does not know our ways. That would not be reasonable either.”

“Ah. Well, my apologies for being stuck with us then.” Obi-Wan says politely, and falls quiet. She is clearly irritated, and he’d rather not tread to heavily on her nerves. He imagines he’ll test them frequently while he’s here. She really doesn’t seem to care for men – or Jedi. He studies the houses they stroll past instead, stonework with square, bud like roofs of some preserved canvas. It really looks rather planet-like, the material, and the grooves in the seams give him the expectation of considerable rainfall. This is wetland, after all.

“Do me a kindness and try to make your existence bearable.” She mutters.

“I hold no responsibility for my existence.” Obi-Wan quips. “But I’ll see what I can do about my presence as it affects yours.”

Obi-Wan slows his steps, making his way back to fall in line with his master. “Why are we staying?” He asks.

“Hm?”

“Why are we staying on Dathomir? We’ve brought Padawan Ventress home, they’ve done what they can for Quinlan – unless you think they can do more? – but they seem to expect us to stick around for a while.”

“There is one further matter upon which I intend to ply their assistance, if you recall.” Master Ben replies. “And perhaps there is yet more they could assist Quinlan with, in his recovery. Furthermore, Padawan Ventress has been brought home, yes, but there remains before her a choice, and we’ll not rush her into making it.”

“Between staying and becoming a Nightsister, or going with us back to the Temple?”

“Precisely.” His master nods, one hand finding its way to Obi-Wan’s shoulder and squeezing.

Obi-Wan looks up at him, and rubs at his chest absently. “Master…are you alright?”

“You saw Mother Talzin heal me yourself.” His master lifts a brow. Obi-Wan gives him a flat look for the obfuscation, the deliberate misunderstanding, because Master Ben thinks much quicker than that.

“Something… I felt something between us break, but I don’t – I couldn’t say what it was. It wasn’t our training bond.” Obi-Wan whispers uncertainly.

“No, it wasn’t that.” His master replies, gaze dimming into brooding once more. “I was given… a vision, of sorts. A warning. It shouldn’t be anything you need worry about, Obi-Wan.” His master adds somewhat dismissively.

 _That_ , Obi-Wan thinks ferociously, _does not actually stop me from worrying!_


	34. Chapter 34

The domicile they were given was at the very edge of the Nightsister’s citadel, beyond the other occupied homes a ways. The roof was intact, and the walls were sturdy, though clearly something had occupied it at some point, a moldering nest remaining in the central hearth, and small bones turning to dust on the floor. The hammocks folded up in a chest were still serviceable, however, and the posts meant to hold them were solid.

The Jedi were hardly going to complain, even if Obi-Wan ended up having to share with Quinlan, being one hammock short. Listening to his friends heartbeat, at least, was reassuring, given that the kiffar still hadn’t woken.

Master Ben gives up on pretending to sleep in the middle of the night and slips away, Obi-Wan tracking him through the Force, but he stops where the stone paths start to give way to packed dirt, under the edge of the trees, and sinks into meditation, so Obi-Wan pulls back, giving his master the privacy he clearly wants.

He himself sleeps fitfully, catching only snatches of his own unfocused dreams, and when he wakes to sense that Master Narec is also up, he gives up, gets up, and slips outside to see what the other Master is up to.

Dawn lifts the red glow of the sky to nearly pink, the clouds turning milky, and the green glow of the waters faint under higher light.

Obi-Wan pauses to see a figure setting down a basket in front of Master Narec, taller and broader than most of the Nightsisters, but they are hidden from fingertip to eyes by dark grey clothes, and they don’t speak at all when Master Narec tries to thank them – they don’t even acknowledge him. They simply walk away, back into the citadel.

“Well,” Master Narec peaks under the cover of the basket. “It appears we’ve been brought breakfast and firewood.” He glances back at Obi-Wan with an affable humor, and then eyes the padawan up and down. “Are you alright?” He asks, as Obi-Wan trods over to help him carry it.

“I wish we had long-range communication here.” Obi-Wan sighs. “My master is being difficult, and I could use my friends’ advice.” He sighs. Master Ben usually wasn’t the one being so reluctant and standoffish, and he could really talk to Sian right about now. “He just – he won’t _talk_ to me.”

“Well, I can’t profess to know your master, Padawan Kenobi.” Master Narec says thoughtfully, handing Obi-Wan the clay tureen to carry whole taking the basket of firewood for himself. “But I do know Jedi Masters. It is a trait of our kind to be reluctant to speak, when we ourselves have yet to understand matters. Perhaps he just needs time to think.”

“It’s not just what happened yesterday.” Obi-Wan complains, well aware that he’s whining. “It’s… my master was a Shadow. He keeps secrets, and I understand that, but it’s – it’s like his _entire_ life is off-limits, and sometimes I just wish… I don’t know. I wish there was more he’d be willing to talk about. The older I get, the less it seems he’s willing to speak on anything personal.” Sometimes, Obi-Wan thought, it was like his master was scared of him knowing too much about him. As if his master feared what Obi-Wan would think of him.

Almost as if he thought Obi-Wan might _reject_ him.

 _He’s not getting rid of me that easy_. Obi-Wan thinks irritably.

“Such as…?” Master Narec prompts.

“I don’t even know my grandmasters name. I know he was a great jedi, but perhaps not such a good man, and I know my master feels guilty about his relationship with his master. I don’t think they had the smoothest relationship. But what do I really know? He hardly ever even mentions his own training. And then – and then there’s my master’s first padawan. I don’t know _his_ name either – and – and something dreadful happened to him, I think. I know my master misses him.” Obi-Wan sighs deeply, pausing on the step to their lodging. “And we’re Mandalorian, right?”

“I had got the impression.” Master Narec smiles wryly. Obi-Wan chuffs a little, looking down.

“My master’s never told me the story of how a jedi became a Mandalorian. Not really. Or why he gave up his name – but, it’s rather terrible etiquette to ask that of someone, by Mandalorian standards. And I know my master is training me to be something I’m not sure I’m prepared to be, and we just…we don’t talk about it.” He’s tried, and every time the conversation starts, it stops. Obi-Wan is afraid to push too hard, and Master Ben is afraid to open up, and the both of them just wind up frustrated with themselves, and tacitly change the subject.

“I sense you’re speaking of more than knighthood.” Master Narec comments, and Obi-Wan pushes the curtain aside, giving him the space to enter the domicile. They fall quiet, for Master Tholme’s sake, as he was still sleeping, after fretting himself to nerve half the night. Quinlan, they wouldn’t mind waking up. Together, they manage to get the heart cleaned up, and a fire going, the tureen hung over it to heat, uncooked rice in water, what looks like some kind of bird egg, and hard-shelled grubs.

After supping often enough with the Skywalkers and Master Ti, Obi-Wan is resigned to the occasional appearance of insects in his meals.

That settled, they step back outside to let it cook. Master Narec moves to a low stone wall in the weak sunshine, and Obi-Wan follows.

He settles on the wall and leans over his knees, rubbing his palms together, gathering his thoughts. “We told you about… about the changes, about the decline of the Order.” Obi-Wan starts, and Master Narec nods, listening with focus. Obi-Wan appreciates the master being patient with him, being willing to listen. It’s kind. “We believe it is not so accidental, that decline. That what has happened to the Order in the last thousand years is an act of malice not yet complete. My master – he’s certain that…that the Sith are behind this. I know it sounds….” Obi-Wan blows out a breath, prepared for a denial that doesn’t come. Master Narec simply…absorbs, so Obi-Wan continues. “He isn’t trying to prepare me to be a Jedi Knight, Master Narec, so much as he is trying to prepare me to fight the Sith, to fight a war he is trying desperately to prevent, a war most Jedi wouldn’t believe could happen. He hasn’t outright said it but… he doesn’t really have to.” Obi-Wan feels his face start to heat, his chest pull tight, his eyes sting. “I love my master, Master Narec.” Obi-Wan whispers. “But I don’t think I can be like him.”

Obi-Wan pulls his lightsaber off his belt, holding it in his hands, feeling that familiar power waiting inside, ready to welcome his embrace, and deep down he’s terrified of it

 _This weapon is for saving lives_. He thinks. _I don’t want to use it to take them_.

“Would you like a bit of wisdom?” Master Narec offers, and Obi-Wan nods, looking to him for guidance.

Master Narec doesn’t really have a kind face, but his smile is gentle and a tad rueful and it offers Obi-Wan’s spirit ease anyways. “If you don’t wish to be like your master, Padawan Kenobi, don’t be like him. Padawans are not meant to be their masters. They are meant to be better than their masters are. As a master myself, I can tell you that I do not want Asajj to be me. I want her to be herself, and I want to give her the best of my teachings. Not my flaws. Not my mistakes.”

Master Narec pauses, looking over Obi-Wan’s face, still sensing his uncertainty and conflict, no doubt.

“Your master seems a complicated man, and he seems a man who has suffered greatly, and no doubt made many mistakes. But his regard for you is astoundingly clear, you know. If he finds it difficult to speak, the fault, I think, is not that he does not trust you. Likely, the man does not trust himself. That’s a far more difficult thing to overcome.”

“But _I_ trust him.” Obi-Wan argues.

“Of course.” Master Narec nods. “And that trust is precious. I’d say he doesn’t want to break it. He doesn’t want to cause you pain.”

“But _not_ being able to talk with him is painful.”

Master Narec chuffs. “I’m sorry to say, Padawan Kenobi, but I think the two of you are rather caught in the trap of ‘damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.’”

Obi-Wan groans, scrubbing at his itchy face. “Do you and your padawan ever have that trouble?” He asks.

“Eh…not so much.” Master Narec says, reaching back to twist his ponytail ruefully. “But you have to understand that Asajj relied upon me completely. Anything I failed to teach her she simply would not know, and it would hardly have been fair to allow her to live in ignorance because of my own reticence. You have more than just your master to guide you.”

“But I want _his_ guidance.” Obi-Wan grumbles. “Even if… even if I’m unsure of what it will make me.”

“Do you want my suggestion?” Master Narec asks.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan replies earnestly.

Master Narec’s smile twists a little. “Tell him what you’ve told me. Tell him what you’re afraid of. Tell him that you need him, and his guidance. I’ve been watching you, Padawan Kenobi. You can’t forever be trying to protect your master from himself. That isn’t your responsibility.”

Obi-Wan flushes, looking away. “He needs me.”

“I don’t doubt that, but you have to protect yourself too.”

Obi-Wan glances back at that, chewing his lip. Master Narec quirks a brow. “Not so easy, is it?”

Obi-Wan sighs, slumping a little. “No.” He says sulkily.


	35. Chapter 35

Ben finds a relatively smooth spot of moss to settle down on, sinking to the ground with weight in his bones. Water whispers nearby, just a few yards back, flowing beneath the last stone bridge before the pathways turned to trails. He catches the shine of eyes from some wildlife, and the quiet hawking of some bird, disturbed by is presence. Ben breathes in deep, feeling sweat begin to trickle down the nape of his neck already, aided by the humidity. The ground is warm, and the air presses against his skin.

It’s an eerie planet, wilder than most, but it is also rich and beautiful, in it’s own way.

He feels Obi-Wan’s fretful attention recede as Ben tries to relax into meditation, and he feels guilty that he feels relief at his padawan’s absence. First, the boy needs to sleep, second… Ben needs a chance to gather his thoughts, and that was often difficult to do when his student was staring him down.

 _Obi-Wan Kenobi belongs to your precious Light, forever and always. The stars know this, and so do you. Darkness will never have him. But you… You are not Obi-Wan Kenobi_.

A burning connection, snapped, like a tether being torn from his soul –

But what was it, really?

He wasn’t Obi-Wan Kenobi. He gave up his name. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Obi-Wan Kenobi had a destiny, and that no longer belonged to him either.

But what did, then?

He hadn’t really… he had a purpose. He was going to save the Jedi. He was going to kill Darth Sideous. He was going to save Anakin.

That was all he needed, wasn’t it? That was _worth it_ , wasn’t it?

But what had broken? Or been meant to break? What was the rest of the truth had she been trying to show him?

Ben draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and tries to focus his mind, to clear his emotions, to let the Force flow through him, and let him see-

His shields unfurl, his senses expanding, wading into the wilder energies of Dathomir, reaching in and reaching out towards that shimmering expanse that connected _everything_ -

Ben finds himself standing in a fathomless grey field, grey sands against a grey sky.

A brilliant thread of blue fire spins out of his chest like woven silk, leading him to Obi-Wan, binding him to his padawan, who stands tall, his armor gleaming, his presence brimming with potential.

But there was something behind him, casting a shadow.

Ben moves forward, drawn to it.

The burning blue line weaves through his padawan, burning him up inside, latching on to his spark, leeching through his spirit, and yet it passes through him, tied to something else, tied…to a mirror.

“I’m right here, Master.” His padawan says, standing in the path, blocking the reflection in the mirror, but Ben needs to see it. He _needs_ to see it.

But Obi-Wan was in the way.

“Move.” Ben tells him.

“I can’t, can I?” His padawan replies, hand lifting to touch the tether between them, but his fingers pass through it. He’s tied to it, but it doesn’t come from him. He’s merely caught in between.

Ben lift a hand, and he _can_ touch it.

Almost as soon as he does, the line of fire begins to unravel, and it _yanks_ out of Obi-Wan, the fire guttering and curdling, and the padawan slumps to his knees with a gasp, set free.

But bond still ties Ben to the mirror, and in the mirror-

Was Obi-Wan.

But not the powerful young man on his knees; new, gossamer strands spilling from him like sunlight and white fire and the heat-shimmer off sand dunes, a thousand new possibilities unleashed, and all of them _Light_. Not untouched by darkness – nothing ever was, but never claimed by it, never broken to it.

The young man in front of him was a little shorter, tanner, his hair a little lighter for more time spent in the sun. He wore traditional tunics and tabards in brown and beige, his smile cheekier, but his gaze dimmer, his presence so much less. Behind him the sands were black, the sky a bloody, smoke-stained red, devoid of stars.

The past Ben had fled. The future still looming ahead of him.

Everything he felt like he could never outrun.

“I don’t understand.” Ben says, the bond between him and the reflection unbroken, and getting stronger.

“What are you made for?” The reflection asks.

The answer comes out of him, but without Ben’s permission, nor his own agency. The answer came from a conversation he had long ago with Anakin. Anakin, who was always made for something greater.

 _What are you made for, master_?

“Infinite sadness.” He replies.

The reflection looks down, at Obi-Wan, whose hands now held all that light spilling out him, all that hope. It looks back up, to Ben, the expression something he’d never seen on his own face before, something…intent and _other_. “We remade Obi-Wan Kenobi. We remade the world.” It tells him. “We unmade your past. We took away your destiny. What you are is all that is left.”

“No one.” Ben murmurs, feeling a shiver run through him. Perhaps his chosen name was no simple irony nor coincidence. “But I _was_ Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Everything he does, every action he takes, ever decision he makes, was because of the man he had been, and what he had suffered.

“And now _he_ is.” The reflection gestures down. “We set _you_ free.”

 _But I’m not free._ Ben grabs the tether, binding him to the reflection, to his past, to his future. It bites into his hands, sinks deep into his chest. _I’m not free_.

~*~

“Mother, are we allowed to be here?”

“Quiet, darling.” Her mother shushes her, only adding to her sense of trespass. “We have every right to be here. Come.”

Asajj doubted her mother’s claim, given the furtive nature of their movements, given the discreet, slightly uncomfortable passageways bringing them to their destination, sneaking in the back of Temple, avoiding the shadows of anyone else in the caverns below it.

She had spent the night with her mother, and been introduced to an Aunt, and two other witches who were unrelated, but who seemed close to her mother. But it seemed an odd sort of closeness, not quite friendship, but more… reverence.

“ _Your mother is powerful, little Asajj, as you will be some day._ ” One of the women had murmured, her face and arms marred with scars, her eyes strange – green on black, almost more animal than humanoid. “ _She’s a true Mother. She takes care of those of us Talzin will not. She gave my sight back to me, when Talzin refused_.” That had been Mirris.

Asajj had asked why Mother Talzin refused, wondering why anyone who had such power to heal would not do so.

“ _I survived my Test_.” Mirris had said lowly. _“But I did not pass. Talzin considered me unworthy of her efforts_.”

 _“There are more than few of us that witch has betrayed.”_ Her mother had told her, eyes alight, voice cold. _“Including you and I.”_

Asajj had asked about the Test, and her mother had been pleased with her curiosity.

“ _I can feel the power brimming up inside you_.” Her mother had told her. “ _You will pass. I know it. You’re my daughter. Tomorrow. I’ll take you tomorrow._ ”

So here they were, sneaking into the Temple without Mother Talzin’s permission. Asajj was nervous, but she wanted to pass. Wanted to _be_ one of her people.

She didn’t know if she wanted to stay, but…

The evening had been nice. Her mother had told her of the great wars, which lead to the Nightsisters exile, which had lead them to Dathomir, and which had ultimately saved them. Javra, and older woman with ash-black hair cut short – _“I like that style of yours.” She’d grinned, wrinkled cheeks turned round, complimenting Asajj own hair-cut_ – had told her of The Winged Goddess, the embodiment of creation, growth, motion, and the spark of life; And the Fanged God, the embodiment of destruction, decay, stillness, and the reclamation of life.

The Nightsister didn’t have a concept of real Death. They believed the Force – what Asajj called the Force - contained all the souls of those who came before, and all the sparks of those who would come after.

“ _Something cannot come from nothing. That which the Winged Goddess creates, the Fanged God destroys. That which the Fanged God destroys, the Winged Goddess turns into new creations. There is no beginning. There is no end. There is only the cycle. The circle_.” Javra had said, drawing effigies in the ashes of the hearth. “ _And us, in the center_.” She drew a child, curled up, between a sinewy shadow with a fanged maw, and a soft, sheltering wing, rays of light or power bursting from the figure. “ _Binding together than which we were built by_. _True power does not come from absolute creation, nor absolute destruction, but from acts which turn one into the other. For every great creation, there must be an equal destruction. For every ruin, a reciprocal restoration_.”

It sounded like balance, but not the way Master Narec taught it, the way the Temple taught him.

“ _But what is the Test_?” Asajj had asked.

“ _You are brought into this world bursting with creation. You must learn destruction. But you cannot simply step from one to the other. The two forces are equally absolute, at their source. They will tear you apart, if you cannot control them. The Winged Goddess gives everything, and so too do those who follow her. She would have you give, and give, until the spark that gives you life burns and burns out. The Fanged God will take you, if he can. He will use you to do his work, and in using you, he will destroy you.”_ The older Nightsisters had warned her _. “We are flesh and spirit, we cannot be as such absolutes. You must face the Fanged One as a daughter of the Winged Goddess, and the Winged Goddess as a daughter of the Fanged one. And yet you must belong to neither. Who you are must be stronger than every other force in the world. Many think the Test is to open yourself to the power of the Fanged God, as you are open to the Winged Goddess. This is not true_.”

“ _Then what is the Test_?”

Javra has smiled grimly. “ _Pass, and you will know_.”

Asassi leads her down a narrow passage, little more than a crevasse in natural stone, and out into a massive cavern, to the rush of brilliant falls over a shimmering pool, and Asajj feels recognition settle into her bones, an intimate welcome home. Awe washes through her, as she cranes her neck to look up at the falls, one green, one golden, one blue.

But she stops, when her mother beckons her towards the pool.

Asajj can feel, underneath all that simmering energy, a coldness, down deep, a hungry emptiness, waiting below, just as potent as the bursting springs above.

In theory, it hadn’t sounded so terrible.

But she knows what that cold is, what it means, and every warning lecture Master Narec ever gave her about the Dark Side rears in the back of her mind.

“Asajj?” Her mother smiles at her, the expression sweet, though there is still something behind her mother’s eyes that simply isn’t there. Asajj swallows, fingers brushing the lightsabers on her belt, the weapons of a Jedi.

The Dark Side was _forbidden_.

 _But… but what about Padawan Vos_?

No, she knows better, all her conflicting wants and loyalties aside.

“Asajj.” Her mother’s smile fades, her tone turning stern.

“I don’t know if I can do this, mother.” Asajj says hesitantly, hunching a little with shame.

“You can, darling, of course you can.” Her mother smiles again, encouraging and lovely, and reaches out for her.

“I don’t know if I want to.” Asajj insists, fingers tightening around her lightsabers. “It isn’t the Jedi way. The Dark Side is _wrong_.”

And her mother’s smile slips away completely. “You are not a Jedi, Asajj Ventress. You are a daughter of Dathomir, a born Nightsister. You are _mine_ , and they won’t take you away from me again.”

“Mother!” Asajj steps back. “I don’t want to do this – I – can’t.” How could she choose? Between her own mother, her own people, and Master Narec. He raised her, he loved her as his own, took care of her. But he never completely understood her. And she’d never felt like this before, the way she felt in this chamber, on this world, so utterly accepted, cherished, wanted.

Would the Temple welcome her so easily? She has a sick dread in the pit of her stomach that they wouldn’t. That she’d be too different, and so far behind. Master Narec did his best, but there was so much she simply didn’t know. But here – the Clan would deny her nothing. “I can’t choose. Not yet.”

“Oh, Asajj. My darling.” Her mother strides up to her, cupping her cheek in one chill hand again, looking at her so softly. “It’s alright.” She murmurs consolingly, embracing her. “You don’t have to.”

Asajj leans into her mothers embrace, laying her head on her shoulder, something inside her chest melting with relief, desperate for the cradling comfort. “Thank you, mother.” Asajj whispers. “I’m sorry – _mother_!”

Asajj shrieks, as chill hands shove her into the water, and something in the deep reaches up to pull her down.


	36. Chapter 36

Ysett can feel a sigh curl around her shoulders as she makes the trek up to Mother Talzin’s domicile, enjoying the view the otherwise annoyingly steep stairs provide.

She can see children playing a game in a sequestered plaza, a few younger sisters sparring on the railing of a bridge, snickering when one loses her balance and ends up in the water. A potter is working her wheel in the daylight, crooning a low song Ysett catches only snatches of. A few frustrated expectant mothers are dragging their looms outside, stifled by their condition, blessed though it was. Old Daka hobbles along down the row, little Merrin skipping after her. Ysett can even see some of the Nightsister’s mates dying cloth and patching clothes, on the back side of a row of dwellings, where the water met the treeline, unobtrusive, but still present.

A mother should be able to watch over her clan. Such was right.

She pushes aside the woven door of Mother Talzin’s dwelling at the quiet beckoning she receives, and finds the Mother sitting at the window, watching over her clan as Ysett had been doing, drawing a bone comb through her long hair, a pot of breakfast broth simmering in coals on the hearth.

“Mother.” Ysett lowers her gaze respectfully, and offers a hand for the comb. Mother Talzin smiles wryly, a fitting expression on her blunt features, and hands it over. Ysett takes to the task deftly, pulling long ropes of hair into order for braids.

“You are unhappy.” Mother Talzin remarks, after a minute of so, pouring broth into bowls across the room with a tease of her fingers. Ysett envies her the ease of her use of power. Ysett can fight with magicks, can cast illusions with the best of the Clan, but it does not come to her so organically nor smoothly, dancing along her simplest desires. “What can I do for you, child?”

“I do not like leaving Asajj to Asassi Ventress’s clutches.” Ysett says plainly.

“Asassi is her mother. She has a blood right.” Mother Talzin replies tiredly, reaching up to briefly brush her fingers over Ysett’s wrist, acknowledging her tension – and warning her not to snarl her hair with it.

“Asassi is not loyal!” Ysett returns vehemently. “And Asajj will not know better.”

Nightsisters survived by their loyalty, to themselves, to their kin, to the Clan. That loyalty was absolute. _Must_ be absolute.

“I will not act against a Nightsister who has not acted against us.” Mother Talzin says firmly. “I am Mother. My service to my children is uncompromisable. Asassi may be as bitter as she pleases. She has harmed none of our own.” Yet.

Ysett grinds her teeth. She knows this. “She conspires, Mother.” Ysett insists. “She draws others to her ill intent and turns them against you.” Ysett has seen enough of those diminished sisters slinking to and from Asassi’s domicile in the lay hours, seen the way dull hurts in their eyes are stoked to a fervor, knows that Asassi plies her little circle with favors and flashes of power they themselves do not possess, and watched them draw closer and closer to her, and further and further from the clan as a whole.

“If she wishes to challenge me, that is her right.” Talzin reminds her, lifting a brow, blowing gently over the rim of a bowl to cool the broth, another sitting on the table for Ysett.

Ysett sets the comb down and forces her fingers not to tense in the elder’s hair. She commands herself, and sets her fingers to work. “I fear she will not challenge you, mother. I sense her intentions are worse than that.”

“So do I.” Mother Talzin sighs. “But her grievance is not unfounded.”

“Asajj is returned to us.”

“And that forgives that I sent her away? That I _sold_ her?” Talzin muses, lips twisting. “It does not. Our daughters should not suffer for our failures, Ysett.”

Ysett abandons the task, picks up the bowl, the ceramic heat stinging her palms, and sits, seething. Ysett does not blame Asassi for grieving. The entire Clan had grieved, but they had not the means to refuse, nor to retaliate.

But Asassi had clung to her grief, coveted it, tortured herself and all those around her with it, and it had turned into a kind of madness, and it was not _right_.

“You did what you had to to protect the Clan. That is not failure, Mother.” Ysett breathes over her broth. All the power they held, and still it was not equal, to the might of false machines and riven forces, to power wielded by those who paid nothing for it – or cared not for the cost. The Nightsister’s were content to keep to themselves, could the rest of the galaxy not do them the courtesy of then leaving them alone? Dathomir’s people had come to her as exiles and outcasts, and Dathomir had succored them, had welcomed them, claimed them. They had all they needed, and their practices – so scorned by outsiders – they need not apologize to anyone for.

“Kind of you to believe so.” Mother Talzin muses, taking a sip and setting her bowl aside, setting herself back to the task of her braids. “But I am not so oblivious to her machinations as you fear, Ysett. I know they are not the idle musings of a bitter mind. She will act, and when she does…we shall see.”

“She’s powerful.” Ysett murmurs. Mother Talzin arches a brow. This was known – Asassi once could have been in line to be Clan Mother, of their Clan, or of her own. That is _why_ she had been chosen to bear the burden of the sacrifice of a daughter for the benefit of the clan. But she had not been able to bear it.

“Settle, child.” Mother Talzin soothes. “If she-“

Mother Talzin sucks in a sharp breath, and Ysett lowers her bowl with a clatter.

“Speak it and it shall be so.” Mother Talzin mutters narrowly, rising with a coil of lashing power. “Spirits forsake her.” She curses.

The Sleeper was awake.

“Asajj.” Ysett gasps, horrified. The girl was a _child_. Raised by a _Jedi_ . She couldn’t possibly-

Asassi would get her _killed_.

“Come.” Talzin commands, striding for the door.

Ysett jolts to her feet, feeling the spirits crowd and roar in her ears, prodding and pulling. “I’m with you, Mother.”

~*~

Ky decides to make himself as unobtrusive as possible when Master Naasade heads back their way, looking not as settled as one should after hours spent in meditation. He leaves his perch in the admittedly weak sunshine, but sunshine nonetheless, and heads back into the domicile to check on the progress of breakfast, pausing only long enough to see the Mandalorian master’s countenance lighten considerably when he catches sight of his padawan, who smiles weakly in turn, awkward with nerves as he slides off the wall himself.

Ky feels his lips twitch towards amusement and ducks inside, leaving them to it.

Master Tholme is awake, investigating the contents of the tureen cooking over the hearth, and whatever dread stillness had overtaken his padawan after his ordeal with the Nightsister’s appears to have relaxed into sleep, as the teen lets out a grating snore, having flipped into a contorted position that only the young could ever find comfortable.

Asajj still tended to sleep curled into a ball, but there were times when he’d find her napping on some outcrop of rock up above whichever home they’d made for themselves that season, and he cannot fathom how she did not wake with bruises and strained muscles. The pang hits him deep in the chest, that he misses her and will miss her, and doesn’t want to have to.

“Did he wake at all?” Ky questions quietly, gesturing to the teen.

“Not yet, but in truth I’m a little relieved.” Tholme replies, just as quiet, green eye looking over his charge. “He hasn’t been sleeping well. I’d like to hope it’s a good sign for his improvement.”

Ky doesn’t know precisely how to reply to that, so he nods in quiet assent. They can both still tell the boy is not free of the Dark Side – a chill still invades his presence – but his presence is also calmer, more settled. Ky would almost say it felt more singular, the boy having seemed almost…fragmental, before. At constant cross-purposes within himself, his emotions conflicting and mercurial at strange turns.

He has no reason to cast doubts on Master Tholme’s hopes, and so he doesn’t.

“Would you-“ Ky stops, the request choking off, at the sheer cry of panic that reaches out to him through his training bond with his padawan, a sense of shock and terror and betrayal, and he has the brief sense of having been plunged underwater, of being grabbed – before it recedes.

Ky bolts, almost knocking over Naasade and Kenobi outside, barking out only a sharp – “My padawan-!” before they take to following with alarm.

The road to the Temple is crowded, Nightsister’s drawn out of their homes, confusion and unease whispering through the throng, all casting glances towards the Temple themselves. A few glare at the Jedi as they barrel through, hastily making way. A pair of swordswomen try and stop them on the steps-

“ _Let them pass_.” Talzin commands, her voice clear and direct, though she is nowhere to be seen. The two guards reluctantly stand down, opening the doors and scowling as the Jedi enter.

Ky can feel his padawan, the Force like a lead between them, but he can’t tell where to go, but forward and down. Naasade takes the lead, eyes falling shut as he leans his complete trust into memory and the Force, all but flying down the stairs and through narrow, dark halls.

A powerful urge drives into his bones, a warning, telling them they are unwelcome tresspassers –

Ky ignored it, though Padawan Kenobi turns pale and shudders, forcing himself to keep his focus on the point between his master’s shoulder-blades.

They come to a passage that it little more than crack in the wall, and Ky’s stomach turns at the sheer weight of the tons of earth and stone and water between them and the sky, reminding him badly of the time he’d been lost in a winding canyon on Rattattak, all but trapped beneath the stone for days-

They burst into a cavern lit with a shimmering glow, power snapping through the air, Mother Talzin in a test of wills with Asajj’s mother, power rippling off the both of them, and one Nightsister looking over the massive pool with fear writ across her face.

Bubbles break the surface, bursting, and Ky can feel the thing beneath, sense it’s hunger and inevitability.

“- done is done. She _will_ succeed.” Asajj’s mother seethes, a twisted light in her cold gaze. “And you have no power to stop it.”

“Perhaps giving her up was my mistake, Asassi.” Talzin hisses coldly. “But yours may cost the child her life! What mother-“

Ky ignored them, shucks his robe and boots-

“Don’t lecture me! You betrayed us! You sacrificed my child. You call yourself Mother? What children have you ever had? You _enslave_ your own people! Asajj and I can set us free.”

Naasade grabs his arm in a hard grip, and Ky would yank free if he thought he could do so without dislocating his shoulder. The man’s grip was _strong_. “I can save her.” Ky insists, knowing that his every instinct told him that the powers inside this room were far beyond anything he’d ever encountered. “I have to.”

Naasade’s gaze bleeds understanding – and pity. “She has the power to save herself.” He says. “You might not.” Still, he lets go.

“That doesn’t mean she should have to.” Ky looks with dread into the water, cursing himself for never having taught his padawan to _swim_. Naasade growls and strides an angry pace along the edge of the water, his face absolutely ill at the prospect of diving, a flicker of a glance at his padawan full of dread and unease.

The man has already faced this once, has he not?

Ky does not like his padawan being forced to face something that upset a Jedi Master of that caliber so badly, but he will not abandon her.

“Wait.” Naasade snaps, when Ky makes to dive. “Obi-Wan, help me.” He barks, and looks at Ky, gaze hard and bitter. “Concentrate on your padawan.” He commands, and turns towards the pool, sloshing down the first few steps, till he was in it to the waist, and then lowering his hands to just skim the surface.

Power ripples out, and the Witches both freeze, turning with curious shock. Padawan Kenobi looks nervous, following his master until they are standing side by side, copying the gesture.

“Don’t you dare interfere!” Asajj’s mother seethes, her voice full of chill, echoing power. Ky draws his lightsabers and ignites them, green blades hissing against the steam in the air, reaching out to his padawan in the Force.

She latches on, reaching back, scared and angry and _fighting_ -

 _Fight, Asajj_. He focuses, hoping she can feel that she is not alone. _We’re with you_. They had never managed telepathic communication the way some pairs did, but emotions and sometimes visual, even physical impressions had always served them well. Ky levels a threatening glare on the witch. Her pale blue eyes narrow viciously.

“Well, this seems like a beautiful culmination of terrible ideas.” Padawan Vos drawls, appearing in the archway with a careless slouch, eyes narrowed as he casts a cold brown gaze across all of them. “I take a nap and everyone appears to have lost their mind.”

“Que, _not the time_!” Padawan Kenobi says tensely.

“Yah.” The kiffar padawan nods, loping out of the arch, his master not far behind. “Someone’s down there, and they’re not having a good time. I just came to join the party. You can use me, right?” He asks.

Master Naasade looks awfully relieved as he nods, and turns back to the water, reaches out, and down below, something deep in the water shudders, as the Jedi take hold, and begin to _pull_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I could not decide who got to do the rescue.


	37. Chapter 37

Asajj gasps as air hits her face, and chokes, sucking in water, burning in her nose and in her lungs, and she hacks, slashing frantically with her saber at the slimy, enormous limb crushing her stomach, rewarded with an animal howl so deep and low she feels it in her bones more than she hears it in her head. Her other saber is at the bottom of this stupid lake somewhere, her hand pinned to her side, and she kicks and struggles vainly, but the limb holds fast.

Asajj yelps as she’s upended, momentarily plunged underneath the surface again, still coughing, trying tp spit out what she’s already swallowed-

She’s lifted, and sucks in air, even though it hurts. Heavy limbs rise and fall with thunderous crashes, churning waters and casting waves. Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi are waist deep in the pool, arms uplifted, entire bodies straining with the effort of having drawn the leviathan from the depths.

Not for its weight, but for its own power, challenging theirs. The depth of its hunger, the endless span of its age and its want, and it’s will – old, all animal impulse and desires, but so strong.

In the Force alone, if was smothering her, hard as she tried to fight it.

Putrid pale limbs lash out at the Jedi, and the Sleeper shrieks again when a brilliant blue saber leaps to meet it, Master Tholme guarding the Mandalorian duo.

“Narec!” Tholme hollers hoarsely.

“I see her.” A stressed, familiarly terse tone.

 _Papa! Master Ky_! Hope flares fiercely in her chest, but she can’t see him, tangled in the beast as she is.

“The Test is sacred!”

Asassi.

 _Mother_.

Fear strikes her, at her mother’s voice.

 _Please don’t leave me. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Master Ky. Please_.

“Asajj!” His voice, calling out. “I am _not_ leaving you.”

She wants to cry, and instead- instead, she is angry. Not at him. At herself. At her foolishness, and the weakness that had led her to her present circumstance.

And she is furious, at this _stupid, monstrous, overgrown leech_!

And she’s terrified, that her choices have been stolen from her, and that her path may be death, or the Dark Side.

 _This isn’t what I wanted_.

She had just wanted – she had just wanted to be loved.

“Blast – I can’t get to her! Too many damn arms!”

Asajj catches a glimpse of Mother Talzin, moonlight eyes burning and fixed – on _her_.

“Just keep eyes on her.” Naasade barks. “Quinlan!”

A grunt, pained and irritated. The kiffar padawan had been struck, first by a heaving tentacle and second by the wall that caught him. A Nightsister helps him up, shielding them both from another deluge of water, carried by a barbed tail, with a cast of green magick. He licks blood off his lip, bitten through, and turns a dark, nasty look on the Sleep, on the maw, churning and gulping at the surface, foul breath spilling forth, fat eyes drawn back, serrated claws arcing dangerously in a threat display.

“Hello beastie.” The dark-skinned teenager sneers, teeth bloody and stained pink, and his chin lifts in defiance, and then in something haughtier and full of contempt. Anger glitters coldly in his eyes, lashing at the air around him. There is so much power in the room, and it tilts in a instant from warm mist to a damp, icy chill.

“Thief! This is Asajj’s Test! Sisters, you can’t let them do this. My daughter has the right to claim her title.”

“Be silent, Asassi.” Mother Talzin denounces forcibly, turning her power on the other witch, who struggled and lashed back, locked in stalemate. “Her right was never in question.”

Chills spread across her skin, teasing and prickling around the edes of her mind. The beast stills – and then tries to flee with it’s prize, reaching back for the deeps from which it was drawn.

Padawan Kenobi gasps, the sound oddly loud, and Asajj’s world spins again, and again is claimed by water.

~*~

It was so…quiet in his mind it almost echoed. Everything felt so sharp, so clear, and there was so much power in reach, it was easy, too easy to call upon, cleaving to his call, filling him with a rush that was so _thrilling_.

That power was his to do with as he pleased, dancing to his touch, eager to his desires-

 _What do I want_?

 _Focus, Que_. He tells himself, tasting the copper in his mouth, feeling the ache spread down his side where he hit the wall, his own pain little more than rush of sensation, Padawan Ventress’s pain far more of a beacon, ripe with fear and anger and helplessness. _What do I want_?

Quiet, in his head.

No demands, no vicious taunts and needling teases and coy, trap-laden promises. Just…him.

If this is what Darkness felt like, real Darkness, his _own_ Darkness, what was everyone so afraid of? It felt _good_. It felt _freeing_. It gave him everything he needed to wrench the fleeing beast back up, coiling his will around Master Naasade’s and Obi-Wan’s attempts, leaning over Obi-Wan’s efforts as easily as lounging over the younger boy’s shoulder, using him as a brace. Obi-Wan leans back, and for a moment, there is a frightening, searing discord, between Obi-Wan’s Light and Quinlan’s Darkness, terrifying and disorienting and they both tense and pull apart – and then Obi-Wan forces himself to cede just a little of his control, and Quinlan in turn demands a little less of his acquiescence. Light and Darkness can destroy each other – but each feeds off the other as well, made stronger by the contrast of their natures.

It was all a matter of balance.

There was a curious effort, attempting an attack, the consciousness of the Sleeper beyond all familiarity. The Sleeper was less a creature than an entity, a power of Dathomir.

But it sought to consume Master Narec’s dearest padawan, and harm the Jedi and that – that was unacceptable. The Jedi were _his_.

 _So pay attention to me, beastie_. Quinlan feeds his anger, his will, his ego, feeds that part of himself that demands the world – and _will_ have it. _Put her down_.

The Sleeper senses a challenger, and when Quinlan pushes, it pushes back, ancient will nearly swamping the padawan, driving into his every cell in a fight for dominance – but its ancience is not all strength – it is also _complacency_ , assured by its own inevitability. It does not have the same fight in it that mortal, struggling, wanting things – things like Quinlan, do.

Quinlan grinds his teeth, digging in to himself, reaching for more, more, _more_ power, and the Sleeper watches him, bulbous eyes shrunk to it’s head, the room suffocating in its smugness, in its excess and undeniability. What is he but another spark to flare and die? What is he but another pathetic little pretender, scrabbling for some shallow, ineffective meaning?

Bile sours the back of his throat, a low scream of rage starting in his chest, and Quinlan can feel himself being pushed back. It will crush him, as it has crushed everyone else. Oh, perhaps they escape, for a time, but all things decay, all things return, and ultimately the Sleeper sups on their remains.

Pressure bears down, fat eyes and gleaming teeth fixed in his gaze, and Quinlan is frozen, trapped-

But Asajj slips free, for a moment, the Sleeper distracted by its many challengers, its will to keep her faltering, and her amber saber blazes as she leaps, and drives the blade right in to one swollen, unblinking eye.

It _howls_.

Limbs thrash, the entire cavern shaking, and Quinlan drives forward into the Force, reaching into its pain, into its weakness, and digging in. The Sleeper flinches, limbs pulling back with spasmic shudders-

Master Narec takes his chance.

“Asajj!” He charges into the waters, slashing a barbed tail out of his way, as she slips, losing both leverage and her footing, as terrified of the deep water as she is of the thing that wanted to eat her-

The Sleeper lashes out, those long, serrated limbs scrabbling after her, vicious in retribution, and Quinlan reaches out, clenching a fist, feeling sodden flesh and hard carapace bruise and fracture, pain spiraling into more pain, and Quinlan grins, because it’s not so powerful, is it? _He_ is.

Narec swims for his padawan, who thrashes in the water, barely able to keep her head above water, sputtering and struggling, and _had she never been taught to swim_? He thinks irritably.

Narec reaches her and she clings to him, nearly dragging him down before her master’s sharp prod in the Force levels her panic into something manageable, and Quinlan would sneer if not for the two-sided tap he himself gets, from Master Naasade and Obi-Wan.

 _Focus, Que_.

They leverage into him, and he into them, and together, the three of them seize the monster, pressing it in on itself, forcing it back _down_.

 _I could kill it_ , Quinlan thinks. _I could crush it, tear it apart. Hells, with Obi and his master’s strength at my call, it would be easy_ -

Obi-Wan falters, half catching that cruel, possessive thought, and Quinlan gets a warning from Master Naasade and resists himself with annoyance.

It wouldn’t really die. The Sleeper was a power of Dathomir. So long as the planet had life, The Sleeper would exist to feed on it. Quinlan lets it go.

It all but flees, its prize snatched from its grasp, the threat against it no longer worth the reward.

Master Narec and his padawan come stumbling out of the water, Padawan Ventress hitting her knees in shock and relief as soon as she is firmly on stone, coughing up water. Obi-Wan and Master Naasade follow, utterly soaked, boots squelching. Master Naasade lowers himself to a knee, murmuring some inane comfort, no doubt, checking over the gasping girl and her adrenaline-shocked master. Narec nods to some query with a grimace, and Asajj looks up, wide-eyed with lingering fear, full of gratitude for her rescuers.

And then her gaze lands on her mother, and shutters.

Asassi Ventress pushes past Talzin, who allows it, keeping narrowed eyes on the woman. “Asajj!”

The girl flinches back, shoulders tensing, spine stiffening in an instinctive defiance. She’s been taught not to display her weakness, covering it with bristling and posture. She lifts her chin, but her expression is still fractured with heartbreak and confusion.

Quinlan finds it fascinating, that trembling storm of emotion, until a warm hand brushes his shoulder, and his own Master outright startles him.

“Stay away from her.” Master Narec snaps, tone as severe and unyielding as a Jedi Master’s could be, rising back to his feet with the faintest shake of faltering muscle.

“She is my daughter.” Asassi declares venomously. “ _You_ stand aside.”

“H-how could you?” Asajj rasps, raspy voice made coarse by her near-drowning.

Her mother falls to her knees before the girl, expression morphing into a careless, possessive sort of adoration, soft and demanding at once. “I saw your dreams, darling.” Her mother says coaxingly. “That’s all I wanted. To help you achieve them. That’s all any mother wants. To see her children happy, to see them as the best of themselves.”

“You nearly killed me!” Asajj shouts back, her frame a frission of desperation and anger, upset and her mother’s expression darkens, before Asassi attempts to be reconciliatory again.

“You would have succeeded, you were so close, darling-“

“Stop it. Stop.” The girl shakes her head, pushing to her feet and having to use her Master as leverage to do so, her limbs shaking, her right leg almost collapsing, and Quinlan can practically feast of the pain and fatigue of the effort, admirable though it may be. No broken bones, he thinks, but Quinlan wouldn’t be surprised if her muscles are bruised to bleeding, beneath her skin. “I’m not your darling, I barely know you!”

“You _are_ my daughter, you have always been-“ Asassi snaps. “ and no pretender and thief is going to take that away from me.” She turns a cold glare on Master Narec, setting all the blame on him-

“He _raised_ me.” Asajj shouts, gaining strength, stepping between her mother and her Master. “He’s been a _father_ to me. And he would never betray me.” Her cheeks color, and Master Narec looks – not gobsmacked, but caught out, like any master too close to attachment for the comfort of the Order, unashamed in the least of it, but perhaps wishing it could be delicately overlooked. “You – I can’t _be_ what you want me to be.” The girl shakes her head. “I just- I _can’t_.” Her voice cracks, eyes watering with tears, voice breaking with defeat. It isn’t fair to her, having to make this choice. Having it forced upon her so brutally while she was so unaware, and so uncertain.

“Asajj-“

“Asassi, _enough_.” Talzin steps in, gliding around the other witch, who glowers coldly. “Asajj’s declaration is clear. You have demeaned yourself by your own actions. Had you any right to claim her, you lost it by sending her unprepared to face the Sleeper, by being careless with her life.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me of her life – you are the cause of all this. This is _your_ fault. She was mine! She was mine, and you took her from me!” Asassi leaps back to her feet, hands curled like claws. “I just wanted her back!”

“And you cannot have her.” Mother Talzin replies implacably. “Accept it, Asassi.” Her face softens. “There is more to you than this old grief.”

Pale blue eyes flash dangerously, mutinously. “Perhaps there used to be.” She snarls, and turns towards the water, eyes cast on the tomb in the center of the pool, a shining silver against black walls and glowing waters.

“You wouldn’t dare.” The Nightsister Ysett growls lowly, stepping between Asassi and the tomb, drawing green fire to her hands, prepared to fight, though she is woefully outmatched in power.

“She will _not_.” Talzin agrees grimly, reaching out with her strength to bind the unstable witch. “You’ve desecrated enough spirits today, Asassi Ventress.” She intones, and the other witch resists, but can’t match them both once they’ve already got her. Tears spill from her eyes, full of bitter anger.

Talzin turns on the Jedi with an imperious, flat review, and lifts a brow. Master Naasade grimaces politely, rising back to his feet and gently ushering his companions to make their way out. Asajj shies away from looking at her mother, full of shame, and her Master provides a protective buffer on that front, guiding her from the room.

Master Tholme tugs lightly on Quinlan’s shoulder, and Quinlan turns with him, but not before catching Mother Talzin in a glance, eyeing him with a small, curious contemplation.


	38. Chapter 38

Ky takes his padawan back to the domicile the Jedi were lent, the rest of their party deliberately trailing behind, giving them a respite of privacy. Asajj trudges with the stubborn, determined tread of someone clinging to themselves to hold it all together until they could have a nice breakdown in private.

The damp heat of Dathomir gives way to the slightly drier heat of the low fire in their domicile, and they shuck their boots and outer layers at the door, dumping and wringing the water out as best they can before ducking fully inside.

There, Ky lowers himself down onto the low stool Tholme had placed next to the hearth with a groan – there had been a lot of stairs in that Temple, to say nothing of his crashing adrenaline – and he grunts when Asajj throws herself down, wrapping her pale, skinny arms around his sides and hiding her face against his stomach with a sob, crying as she had when he first took her in, after the loss of her master, who had been the only kind of family she remembered. As she’d cried when Ky had nearly died after one almost successful ambush, the penalty paid for trusting the wrong people.

“I’m right here.” He murmurs, as he had then, the only thing he really knew to say in comfort. He lays one hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, and runs the other through her hair, shedding more water, as she lets her emotions run wild and run out, until the wracking sobs fade into sniffling tremors, and then she grumbles stiffly, pulling back and scrubbing at her face as if to vanish the evidence.

She looks up at him, winter eyes wide and tremulous.

Ky sighs softly. “I’m sorry, little one.”

She sniffles, looking down. “I didn’t want to choose.” She rasps.

“I know.” Ky tells her, feeling for her pain and her struggle, fiercely protective of the girl he’s raised, and breathtakingly proud of her, and still _sorry_ , about all of it. “I didn’t want you to have to.”

Her eyes water dangerously. “I l-lost one of my lightsabers.” She hiccups.

Ky chuffs an unexpected laugh and then clears his throat, because he doesn’t mean to make light of it. “It’s alright.” He brushes her fringe back, the dark blue locks turning springy as they dried. She wrinkles her nose, sitting up properly, and hisses, clutching her side. “Show me the damage.” Ky directs, shifting his focus from how much she’s grown and how young she still is to more practical priorities.

She rolls up the dark hem of a shirt the Nightsisters had given her and reveals violently colorful mottled bruising from her bottom rib down.

“Ouch.” Ky remarks blandly, earning a chuff from Asajj. “Let’s get you lying down and I’ll see what we can come up with for medical care.”

“Okay, master.” Asajj nods, and Ky stands, body protesting, and helps his padawan leverage up off the floor and onto a hammock. She wheezes a little, making a sound of complaint low in her throat, and he apologizes mutteringly. He pauses, before leaving, one hand laid over her arm.

“I am glad you’re alright, Asajj.” He tells her, hoping she feels the very depth of that gratefulness he offers to the universe that he hadn’t lost her today.

“Yeah.” She replies quietly, voice scratchy. “Me too.”

Ky leaves her reluctantly, and slips outside.

~*~

“That has to chafe.” Quinlan remarks, eyeing his friends wet clothes and fitted armor. “I’m just saying.

“Que, really?” Obi-Wan huffs, boots squelching and sloshing with every step, having been swamped with water more than once. It seemed to cling to his skin, reluctant to disperse into mist, and when it did, the mists seemed to whisper.

Yeah, they were both fairly sure you weren’t supposed to splash around that close to the source of a cosmic power.

“Yes, it chafes.” Obi-Wan grumbles, trudging. “Happy?”

Quinlan shrugs, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, going to push him only to end up tripping on a loose flagstone. Quinlan chortles, and his friend sighs aggrievedly. “I haven’t even had breakfast yet and I’m ready for today to be over. Sleep would be good.”

“Psh, I feel _great_.” Quinlan teases. Obi-Wan eyes him with optimistic speculation, tentatively reaching down their bond in the Force. Quinlan lets him in, both of them at a low, energetic ebb, turning their connection to moonlight on shadows, all soft spectrums, as opposed to hard contrasts.

“Yeah?” Obi-Wan gives a half smile, hopeful. Quinlan smiles back, and it feels easy.

“Yeah. I feel like… like I’ve been trapped. Buried under… I don’t know.” Quinlan shakes his head, embracing how much lighter the world feels. “It feels easier to breathe, to think, like there’s so much more space inside my head for… _me_.”

He feels… clean, in a way he found difficult to describe, difficult to grasp.

No more cages in his mind. No more strangers.

Obi-Wan smiles in full, bumping shoulders with him. They know he’s not out of the Dark, and he’ll have to deal with that, his own Darkness. Maybe some day he’ll even overcome it.

Quinlan doesn’t remember exactly what had been taken, but he knows it has to do with Obi-Wan’s master, knows that he picked up the man’s old lightsaber – _like some kind of special idiot_ , he castigates himself – and that whatever he found, whatever he absorbed, well, clearly it near to rights drove him mad. He doesn’t remember Falling, but he knows the sensation of it now, can look back on his experience in darkness and sense a wrongness there, though some of the details – those tied to the memories that changed who he was – escape him, drawn out with everything else, like poison from a wound. The scar was still there – Quinlan was still connected to the Dark Side of the Force – but the cause of the wound that left it open, left it raw and bleeding, _that_ was gone.

Thinking of, Quinlan glances back at Master Naasade, who’s watching them both with fondness, and he catches Quinlan’s gaze. Master Naasade’s expression tightens slightly, and in his eyes is a flash of loss, loneliness, but acceptance too, even relief. Whatever Quinlan had taken from that lightsaber – it had driven him close to his friends master, made them kindred spirits, in a way – but Quinlan doesn’t _remember,_ even if some of the conversations he recalls give him hints and clues, and Naasade can see that in his face. He’s a little sorry for it – the man seemed lonely more often than not - but Quinlan needed his sanity more than Naasade needed some strange reflection of a friend.

Still, it itches at the back of his mind, and he regrets that there wasn’t any chance for some sort of goodbye. It just leaves things…awkward.

When they get back to their little abandoned sector of the Citadel, they linger in the square outside, letting Master Narec and his padawan have a bit of privacy to just…deal. Quinlan helps Obi-Wan shuck his armor, surprised that it’s heavier than he thought, and wondering how his friend just walks around in it all day, before remembering that Obi-Wan’s physical discipline was above and beyond what was typically expected of padawans.

Quinlan catches his own Master’s gaze a few times, Tholme ever watchful, and Quinlan squirms a bit for his regard, for the wary relief he sees in his green eye. He offers a weak half-smile and his master snorts, which prompts something more genuine. They’ll have to talk, no doubt, figure out how to move forward, but for now….

 _I’d go with you_. _If you – left. I’d go with you_.

Quinlan holds on to his master’s faith, and reassures himself.

For now, they were okay.

~*~

Ben feels a low ache in his chest, when he recognizes for himself the lack of recognition – real recognition – in Quinlan’s eyes. There is no understated, bitter understanding lurking there anymore, no grim acknowledgement of a burden shared.

For all intent and purposes, Quinlan has been set free of the future-past that Ben cannot set aside.

And it was selfish of Ben to want otherwise.

Ben strips himself of his armor and tunics and shucks his boots, wicking as much of the water as he can away with the Force, a trick which Obi-Wan and Quinlan both try and imitate with limited success. The weak sunshine and intense humidity aren’t exactly conducive to drying off, but they do what they can, and hopefully none of them end up with Tread-Rot.

Ben’s troops had been too meticulous with their hygiene and care for it to have been a prevalent problem, but Ben had gotten it once in his youth and once on campaign and even the memory makes him grimace. At least he hadn’t been one of those poor souls naive enough to have tried to treat the bacterial infection with Bacta.

Master Narec comes back out of the domicile with intent and catches Ben’s eye – well, first he catches an eyeful of Ben’s scars, but then, everyone did that the first time – and Ben makes his way over.

“Asajj has some pretty nasty bruising, I was looking to see what we’ve got for medical supplies.”

Ben runs a hand back through his snarled hair and sighs. “My apologies. Had we been a little less preoccupied, we could have asked Mother Talzin to heal her.”

“She’s a healer?”

“Not in any way you’d recognize, but the Nightsister’s abilities are remarkable.” Ben nods. “My padawan could take a look, if you’re willing? He’s had some medical training, more than most his age.”

“I gather the impression that your padawan simply _is_ more than most his age.” Narec mutters, reaching back to stroke his low ponytail.

Ben lifts a brow and Narec just gives him a flat look. “I’d appreciate it.” He nods. “I think we could all use a few hours without witches. We’ll take her back later if it’s worse than I think it is.”

“Of course.” Ben defers. “Obi-Wan.” He turns and calls, interrupting the two teenagers slinging water sloppily at each other with the Force.

“Yes, master?” Obi-Wan replies dutifully, whilst leaning out of the way of Quinlan’s uninterrupted attack and holding up a hand, drawing an effective shield between himself and any further bombardments. Quinlan grumbles, but leaves off. Obi-Wan glances at him from the corner of his eye, smirking a little.

Teenagers would be teenagers.

“Padawan Ventress could use some medical attention, if you’re able.” Ben informs him, pretending utter inobservance of the boys antics.

Obi-Wan sobers quickly. “Of course, master. “ He nods, and lopes off to take care of it, Master Narec trailing after him. Quinlan, deprived of his entertainment, lopes off to join his own master, shuffling a bit anxiously whilst wearing an expression clearly meant to convey that anxiety was something _other_ people suffered from.

Ben looks up at Dathomir’s pale red sky, stomach grumbling, and thinks he could well do for a nap.


	39. Chapter 39

Asajj eyes Padawan Kenobi warily, even with Master Ky sitting a few feet away, minding what smells like breakfast. She isn’t used to being close to people who aren’t Master Ky, even the Rattattaki children and teenling’s she’d played games with and took lessons with sometimes weren’t people she’d let too close – it had been too dangerous, with her and Master Narec being the most wanted people on the planet. The free villages had sheltered them and succored them, but they hadn’t wanted to risk leaving behind anyone who might be identified as a useful hostage.

“I don’t bite, you know.” He teases lightly, rubbing his hands together to warm them. Asajj scowls, and carefully rolls up the hem of her damp shirt. She expects him to poke her, tense with the expectation, and is glad when he doesn’t. In fact, he hardly even touches her, palms just skimming over pain-hot skin, prickly and ticklish.

“If you’d ruptured anything, you’d be in a lot more pain, and I don’t think you’re bleeding internally.” He frowns thoughtfully, eyes closed with focus. “Which isn’t to say there isn’t damage. I’ll have to ask about ingestible soothers, but I’d suggest you eat very light, very small portions, and expect cramping. I’m not really supposed to try Force Healing without a Healer’s supervision, but I can make an effort, if you’re up for it.”

“Will it hurt?” Asajj inquires, dubious.

Red brows twitch, and his cheek twitches, revealing a dimple. “Not more than you’re hurting right now.” He remarks.

“Okay then.” Asajj shrugs, intrigued.

The ticklish, prickly feeling intensified to near pain, deeply discomforting, and Asajj tries not to squirm, fingers knotting around the edges of the hammock as she clenches her jaw, determined not to whimper.

Light, soothing energy reaches out to her, and she lashes back at the unfamiliar touch before realizing she’s being dumb – obviously that’s Padawan Kenobi, and if she can stand him touching her physically she can stand his touch in the Force too, and the pain laves away some, along with some of her exhaustion, and the churned up excess of her negative emotions, still lingering.

Oh, oh. A lump builds in her throat and the simple kindness of the effort, and Padawan Kenobi offers her an understanding smile, peeking his eyes open just a bit.

‘ _It’s okay_.’ He projects, and Asajj startles, because that’s new. ‘ _Sorry, too loud_?’

She doesn’t know how to reply in turn. Her and Master Ky don’t do mind-to-mind communication in much more than feelings and images.

“How do you do that?” Asajj demands, wanting to know.

“I’m a natural broadcaster. Not everyone can, though most can learn. Unfortunately, it’s not something I really know how to teach. I’ve just always been capable of it.” He explains, and draws his hands away, shaking them out as if trying to rid himself of pins and needles. His mouth twists a bit, inspecting his work. Asajj finds her bruises have turned from violent red and purple bursts to duller pink-to-blueish hues, and when she moves she still aches, but it’s a duller ache, less a warning and more a reminder.

“What about that?” She asks. “Can I learn that?”

“Healing? Certainly. Though I think you’d want to learn that from Mother Talzin. The Nightsister’s healing technique is…intimidatingly impressive.”

“They can heal?” Asajj asks quietly, drawing her arms back to herself. She’s not sure she wants to think about the Nightsister’s right now. No, that’s not true. She _knows_ she doesn’t want to think about the Nightsister’s right now.

“She healed my master. He came out of the pool with a lot more damage than you.” Padawan Kenobi remarks, looking peeved about that fact. “But he’s fine now.” He adds, huffing a little as he reaches up to tug on his hair in exasperation.

“Oh.”

He studies her face for a bit, and Asajj glares at him for doing so after about ten seconds or so, because really? Could he not stare at a wall or something?

“Don’t give up just because it hurts.” He says quietly, sincerely. “They’re still your people, even if – even if you wished some of them could be different than they are.”

“What do you know about it?” Asajj snaps defensively.

He doesn’t take offense, and that makes her ire worse. “I’ve met my sister.” He remarks, shrugging lightly and drawing her curiosity – because Master Ky has told her most Jedi never know their families, even if they go back to their home worlds as Padawans or Knights. “She’s the leader of our families Clan – heh, yeah, I come from a Clannish people too. In more ways than one. But…I’m not one of them. I know I’m not. My people gave me up and…and I gave them up too.” He says, blue-green eyes full of faceted depth, and Asajj couldn’t ignore him if she wanted to. “But it hurt more to not know them and have them give me up, than to have known them and walked away. In the end, it’s up to us to choose what we take with us, and what we become because of it.”

Asajj tries to accept that wisdom – Master Ky is always telling her that accepting the wisdom of others is often how we build wisdom of our own – and tries to think, and instead blurts out; “Please back off.” Because really, Asajj could use some breathing space, both physically and mentally.

“Sorry.” He says ruefully, drawing back.

Asajj nods. “And...um…thanks.” She says awkwardly, rolling her shirt back down. He gives a polite bow and – and did padawans bow to each other? But before she can even think about nodding back, he takes his leave.

Asajj lets out a puff of air, feeling all tied up in knots inside in a way that had very little to do with her tense muscles and bruises and a whole lot to do with her feelings.

Which she was supposed to let go of.

Which she wasn’t really _good_ at.

 _Your emotions are a current, but you are the stream, little one. Let them flow, but guide them. Feel them, and let them pass_. She tries to adhere to Master Ky’s teachings, tries to understand what they’re supposed to mean, and sometimes they help but right now…right now…

Asajj curls on her side in the hammock, and lands her miserable stare on her master.

His look is full of empathy, but some things are beyond even him.

“All I can offer you right now, little one, is comfort and breakfast.” He says, understanding wordlessly all the pent up struggle behind her gaze, as he always seemed to, even if he couldn’t dispel it for her.

“I’ll take it, master.” Asajj rasps, grateful for that much. She’s glad he’s here.

She’d hate to be alone.

~*~

“I’m fine without a shirt, actually.” Quinlan snarks at Obi-Wan, who has graciously accepted the clothes a towering, tattooed male zabrak had brought them, the red and grey tones washing out his already fair skin and otherwise doing an excellent job of making an already powerful teenager looks like some acolyte of a darker god. Dathomiri fashion was as inherently eerie and menacing as the planet itself, and its culture. Quinlan was currently occupied balancing on the ball of his left foot, body planed forward, grabbing the toes of his other foot over his back, and Obi-Wan frowns primly at him.

“Until some girl more clever than wise finds you _too_ fine without a shirt and makes off with you for a mate.”

Quinlan has never sprung out of one of those stretches so quickly in his life and _ouch_ – but there is an old zabrak woman stepping out of the shadow of a crumbling column who had not been there just a second ago. A little girl giggles, darting out of the shadow behind her, some small furry creature tagging on her heels. “What?”

The old woman is stooped and slumped in figure, rounded and sagging with age, her hair swept up into a large mound upon her head, adorned with an impressive headdress of carved and polished bones, laced with woven strands and hanging tassles. Purple tattoos adorn a high, wrinkled brown, and frame a hard chin, and white, ornamental sleeves adorn a detailed red and purple dress. “You displayed power, boy, and you passed a Nightsister’s Test. I’ve known girls who make worse choices.” The old woman remarks, eyeing him up and down with a clouded gaze which, he senses, sees far more through other forces than through the failing sight of cataract-ridden pupils. “I am Daka, Elder Witch of the Nightsisters. Merrin.” She snaps her fingers at the girl without turning, and the girl freezes. “What have I said about Shadow-walking with that little beast?”

The girl scoops up her furry little companion, which chitters, a delicate snout under twitching, pointed ears and blunt-tipped horns, with bright beady eyes and a fluffy, striped tail. “She jus’ wanted to play with me.” The girl mumbles.

Daka sighs tiredly. “Mind it, Merrin.”

“Yes, Mama Daka.” The girl grins, chalk-pale face brimming with joy, and she lets the little creature free again. It promptly starts rooting around in Obi-Wans dismantled armor, pawing out a pauldron and setting its teeth to the _beskar_.

“What can we do for you, Madame Daka?” Master Tholme inquires, having recovered himself from his stretches far more reservedly.

“Mother Talzin is of a mind to set our two peoples on joined paths. I aim to see if this can be done. Your boy shows promise. I will instruct him. We will see if he can learn.”

Quinlan’s brain short-circuits. “Uh – what?” He looks instinctively to his master, whose impassive face tells him nothing of the old Watchman’s thoughts. “I…am _not_ a witch.”

Old Daka seems unimpressed by this assessment.

“The offer is generous, Madame Daka.” Master Naasade intercedes. “But I’m not sure-“

“You wish to align our people against a common enemy, harbinger.” Old Daka says, not turning away from Quinlan, but clearly addressing the jedi master. “Which is a pretty sentiment from one willing to use our power while scorning its practice. The Nightsisters will not be used. If you wish to have an understanding, we will have an understanding. I am prepared to take students of the Jedi. Mother Talzin is prepared to offer students of the Nightbrothers. Your kind will study our ways, our kind will study yours. Or are we not to be equals?” She challenges.

“I do not scorn your practices, Madame Daka.” Master Naasade refutes primly. “But the study of dark magicks will not be approved by the Order.”

“Light and Darkness are the ways of the Jedi. Argue philosophy with the Mother, not with me.” She mutters dismissively. “This is the way it will be done, or it will not be done at all.” She turns, finally, lighting upon him with her clouded gaze. “Do you truly present yourself here as an envoy of your Order? No. You are here for your own purposes, harbinger. If you wish it so, you will make it so, will you not? Our offer is made.”

Master Naasade takes a half step, planting his feet and setting his jaw, arms crossed as his eyes narrow in critical, cold calculations, his gaze far away as he evaluates his position, his resources, his options. It’s a hard, implacable look, and it sends a prickle across Quinlan’s skin, telling him that it is a _dangerous_ look.

‘ _Are you willing_?’

Quinlan twitches, glancing at Obi-Wan, whose jaw was set far more stubbornly than his master’s, but whose gaze was just as indecipherable and determined.

‘ _Consider me….cautiously intrigued_.’ Quinlan replies. Obi-Wan nods tightly, but with decisiveness.

“We are willing to accept, Madame Daka, though the means of our reciprocation will require further thought.” Obi-Wan offers, drawing his master out of thought with a snap as the teenager bows to the old woman, promising much without actually promising anything, and buying them time to find an acceptable resolution. “Quinlan is willing to learn, and if it will not offend, would you be willing to allow others of us to sit in on his lessons?”

Old Daka grins. “Well mannered, at least. I sense that much of what I have to teach, most of you will prove unable to learn, but some-“ Her eyes flicker towards Master Naasade, who scowls “ – have potential. But know this; no Nightsister will condone a man to learn that has not proven himself.”

“Er…” Obi-Wan balks, and the old woman waves a hand.

“The Sleeper will not be woken again. It is not a power to be so carelessly trifled with for petty amusements.” She intones severely, distaste for recent events clear in her voice. Voices. “I can devise a proper test of will and wisdom for you, if you are so eager. If you impress _me_ as your teacher, none may claim you were not found worthy of the teaching.”

Quinlan bites down a grin at his friends expense, and Obi-Wan nods very hesitantly. “I… would appreciate the opportunity.” The red-headed padawan demurs.

“Tommorrow afternoon. Merrin will collect you.” Old Daka informs them. “ _Merrin_.”

The little girl freezes, tip-toeing a dances along the top of a low stone wall, Master Tholme’s robe lipping off her shoulder, a stick in her hand pretending to be a lightsaber. She smiles innocently, shucks the robe, drops the stick, and hops off the wall.

“Comin’, Mama Daka.” She chirps, skipping back into the shadow of the column and simply – disappearing. The old woman mutters a bit after the girl, and then snaps her fingers. The little furry pet that had accompanied them pokes its head out of the pile of armor it has been fruitlessly trying to chew to bits and scrambles over to the old womans skirts before she, too, steps into the shadows and disappears.

Quinlan blinks at their absence.

 _Now that….would be fun_ , he thinks. _Shadow-Walking. Huh_.

“Padawan.”

Quinlan cringes at the tone, and it isn’t even directed at _him_. He catches Master Tholme’s gaze, and both of them strategically retreat into the domicile.

‘ _Sorry, Obi_.’


	40. Chapter 40

Obi-Wan watches Quinlan and Master Tholme disappear inside, joining Master Narec and Padawan Ventress, and then turns to face his master, wishing he felt a little more confident about doing so. Master Ben wasn’t really one to give him a sharp lecture of reprimand, but…

“We do not have the authority to make whole-sale agreements on behalf of the Order with such dubious contacts, Obi-Wan.” His master reminds him pointedly, arms crossed. “A fact of which you are very well aware.”

Obi-Wan crosses his arms, and looks back at his master firmly. “We came here to get help in dealing with the Sith, Master.”

“I came here for intelligence to help us in dealing with thr Sith. Nothing more.” His master refutes.

“But they offered more, and we can’t afford not to accept, can we?” Obi-Wan argues, feeling his throat tighten a little. He does not _want_ to argue with his master. “And you act outside the Order’s authority all the time – _not without good reason_ – but you can hardly lecture me on the same. We need _help_ , master.”

“Obi-Wan-“

“I can’t be what you want me to be!” Obi-Wan blurts out, arms falling loose, fists clenching. He looks down, ashamed and guilty, and there is a startled, quiet pause.

Obi-Wan sucks in a breath, and forces the rest of it out. Better to do it all at once, he thinks. “ I love you, Master Ben. And I need you, I _need_ your guidance, but…. but I’m scared.” Obi-Wan braves himself and looks up, blue-green eyes meeting blue-grey. “I can’t-“ He bites his lips, lifts his shoulders, and corrects himself, sick to his stomach. “I _don’t_ _want_ to be like you, master.” He whispers. “I’m scared to end up like you. I’m scared of the Sith, and the war you’re training me for. I’m scared of who _I’ll_ be, of what I’ll turn in to, trying to win it.”

Obi-Wan gets the words out and his throat closes up, his hands feeling cold but his ears burning, stomach churning with nerves, gaze dropping to his boots.

A hand drops on his shoulder, and Obi-Wan hunches.

“Breathe.” His master’s brow touches his, a gentle, warm point of contact. Obi-Wan sucks in a breath and shudders. His master’s beard twitches with a faint smile, and then he draws back, and Obi-Wan misses the contact immediately.

“Good.” His master nods, expression proud…and sad. “I never wanted you to be like me, Obi-Wan. I’m sorry this has been hanging over your head – and that I didn’t take better notice of it. I knew you’ve… I knew you’ve been having reservations. I know I ask much of you – more of you than you think you can bear, and you are right;” Master Ben sighs. “To fear what this path can turn you into. What we face – it’s difficult, and damning. Sometimes there are no right answers, no good options. And sometimes there are, and I just can’t see them.” He tucks a knuckle under Obi-Wan’s chin, making him look up, the older man studying his face before drawing away, moving to the low stone wall and sitting down.

Obi-Wan follows, gingerly sitting down beside his master, shoulder to shoulder – there’s not much difference left in their heights, now. Another inch or two, and Obi-Wan will start overtaking the older man. “And I don’t know if I can change.” His master confesses.

Obi-Wan chews on his lip, scuffing his heel along the stone beneath him, and sighs, reaching up to brush his fringe back and look up at the sky, feeling out into the Force for guidance, but this – this is just between him and his master. The Force has no answers.

“You keep promising to tell me everything someday, Master, and I’m not – I’m not going to demand for you to do that before _you’re_ ready. Your past, your scars - I don’t have that right. But you have to _talk_ to me. Let me in on your thoughts, on your plans. Tell me what we’re doing, what we’re aiming for. You can trust me, Master – I _know_ you trust me. So let me help you. I can help you. I want to. But I can’t keep following you blindly, master, _I can’t_. You want me to make my own choices, but you don’t always give me a chance to figure out what those choices really are.”

“Sorry.”

Obi-Wan drops his gaze back to his master. “I know. You generally are.”

His master winces, and Obi-Wan does too. That hadn’t been less kind than he meant it to be.

“Just…work with me. I don’t just want to be your student. I’m growing up, in case you hadn’t noticed, I want to be able to be your partner too. I want to be the Jedi you see in me. I think I can be, if you help me. If you work with me.”

“Not the one you see in me.” Master Ben replies, utterly without bitterness, his tone full of quiet, melancholy understanding.

“You’re not a bad person.” Obi-Wan retorts firmly, reaching over and wrapping a hand around the older mans forearm, a warm, steadying point of contact. “But you keep too many secrets, you’re manipulative, you’re dangerous and lonely and _sad_ , Master. You scare me sometimes. I think you even scare yourself.”

Master Ben chuffs. “You’re not wrong.”

“Gee, thanks.” Obi-Wan mutter flatly. That’s not exactly a point on which he _wants_ to be right.

They fall quiet, Master Ben reaching up to stroke his beard. He sighs deeply, and Obi-Wan leans into his shoulder.

“Was I wrong, to accept the Nightsister’s proposal?” Obi-Wan prompts, figuring they have to start somewhere, and they may as well start right now. “Or, well, imply we would accept?”

“The Nightsisters…they serve only themselves, padawan. Our goals may align, but the methods they are willing to use to achieve their own ends can be abhorrent. Their power is far more than illusions and healing. Talzin could take me apart as easily as she mended me, and she would have no qualms about doing so, if it suited her peoples needs. They could have warped Quinlan’s mind, as easily as repairing it, taken away his will, washed out everything that makes him who he is.” His master tries to explain. “You have to understand, we don’t call the Nightsisters dark because they use the Dark Side – we’ve seen plainly that they commune with both sides of the Force, and other powers besides. We call them Dark because they hold to no concepts of good and evil. Their sole morality is tied to their loyalty to each other, and to the survival of their Clan.” Master Ben shifts, storm-like eyes very intent.

“There are… _consequences_ to aligning ourselves with a people who may do unspeakable things while standing at our sides. You fear what war will make of you?” Master Ben pins him with a look, something haunted in the back of his eyes. “I fear too what war will make of the Jedi. What we do to win it… it matters, padawan. Some victories are not worth the prices you pay. But the cost of losing this war, too, is….” His master shakes his head, conflicted.

Obi-Wan absorbs what his master has said, quiet for a minute. “I agree that… that I don’t think we want them to _fight_ with us, Master. But you said you came here for intelligence to help us against the Sith – the Witches have offered to teach us. I think….what we learn could be valuable. How we use what they have to teach – that’s on us. But the Sith use magicks too, don’t they?” Obi-Wan doesn’t know how accurate crecheling tales are, how much fact there was in legends and scary stories, and the history records of the last great Sith War, well, their instructors tended to gloss over certain details, at the academy. They didn’t want to give eight-year-olds night terrors.

“I’ve never seen it first-hand, but the rumors are too prevalent to not have some basis in facts.” His master concedes.

Obi-Wan frowns. “What _have_ you seen, first hand?” He asks abruptly, because it was thing for his master to _know_ of Sith, and another to have actually -

“I killed an apprentice once.” His master tells him. “I cut him in half after he struck the blow that would kill my master. And twelve years later he reappeared to repeat the act and killed the woman I loved.”

Obi-Wan’s mind blanks out.

 _What_?

His master winces, and Obi-Wan realizes he projected that, _loudly_. “Sorry. _Ka’ra pir’ekulor_ , I’m so _sorry_ , master.” _Stars weep_. That was – that was – that explained a lot, actually.

But it was _horrible_.

“Our enemy is not only dangerous because they are rarely truly _beaten_ , Obi-Wan – though gods know they survive what they should not - but because they do not simply seek our deaths.” His master breathes very deliberately, handling old wounds with strict discipline. “They seek our _destruction_. They will drive us to Fall, if they can, and they will do everything in their power to turn us against ourselves. Most Sith are born out of broken Jedi.”

Obi-Wan sets his jaw, nodding, and then carefully reaches over and hugs his master, who leans a cheek against the crown of his head before pulling away with a faint grimace, his shields closing up tight.

The older red-head takes a moment, recollects himself, and clears his throat. “As to your proposition – I can’t argue with your reasoning. What we can learn from the Witches _may_ prove its value. But finding those who can learn – that would be the sticky part, padawan.”

“Well, I had thought…” Obi-Wan trails off.

“What?” His master prompts, lifting a brow.

“Well, I was thinking of sending the Nightsister’s some of the Order’s Shadows.” Obi-Wan says, feeling perhaps he’s erred somewhere - if his master, who _was_ a former Shadow - hadn’t thought of it first.

But Master Ben merely looks thoughtfully surprised. “Ah.” He remarks.

So…he hadn’t thought of that then.

“That….that may be feasible.”

Obi-Wan lets out a relieved breath, and offers his master a tight, hopeful smile.

 _See_ , his expression conveys. _We can get through this together_.

His master snorts lightly. _I never doubted it, padawan mine_.


	41. Chapter 41

Talzin has had a portion of her mind on the Harbinger the moment she sensed him outside the Temple, but at least he had the manners this time to wait until he was invited. She has duties to the spirits, to the upkeep of the Temple, and to the Witches learning under her care that have been interrupted often enough since the Jedi’s arrival.

When she can spare him her attention, she finds him sitting on the stone steps, under the bored attention of Lerrin, who was more interested in talisman she was carving than in his intrusion, and the aggravated glare of Nadiza, who was sharpening her dagger aggressively.

At least they weren’t eyeing him speculatively, as some of the Clan had been doing on their way out yesterday. That would have to be minded – not that Talzin has not considered the prospect herself, Jedi _would_ produce strong children – but the Order would not look kindly on the Clan for stealing their Knights and Masters for mates.

“Jedi.”

He rises, bowing respectfully in the rote way that Jedi do, looking both more and less conspicuous in slightly too-big black and maroon clothes than in his tunics and armor. “Mother.” He replies, straightening, moving to stand with his feet shoulder width apart and hand clasped over wrist behind his back without thinking of it.

 _Jedi soldiers_ , Talzin thinks distastefully. Now that is a future neither of them wants.

Talzin turns, inviting him inside with the sweep of a sleeve. “Is Asajj well?” She inquires, guiding him back into the Temple proper, once more to the table that serves as a spirit alter.

“She’s shaken.” The Jedi replies. “But she will recover. She seemed interested in joining the lessons Madame Daka has offered to Padawan Vos, after some coaxing, but I suggested we might rather send her to you for guidance.”

 _Oh, he does know how to court favor, doesn’t he?_ Talzin eyes him, amused, and the gleam in his eye tells her knows exactly what he is doing – and that he knows she knows it too.

“What has been done with her mother?” He inquires.

“Nothing yet.” Talzin replies neutrally, less amused. Matters of the Clan were not for the Jedi to judge. He nods, just as neutral, and lets the matter rest. Asassi has been contained, and Talzin fully intends to deal with her – but not without consideration for the younger Ventress. Talzin has no desire to worsen the damage Asassi has done and alienate the girl farther from her people. She may yet choose to go with the Jedi, but she was a child of Dathomir. She’d return eventually. They always did.

Talzin takes her seat at the head of the table, feeling the concentrated power seep through the air, feeling the barrier between her and the unseen spaces thin, the voices of the spirits louder, more distinct, they power closer at hand. Her power, closer at hand.

She gestures, and the Jedi sits as well, fingers brushing over the carved tabletop with twitchy reluctance before he clasps his hands and rests them on the edge. “Well, Harbinger?”

He makes a face at the moniker, and Talzin is unimpressed. But he does not protest.

All things were give and take, and they were both playing the game very carefully.

“Madame Daka mentioned you had offered a…cultural exchange, to ally our two peoples.” He says carefully. “Some of Dathomir’s sons for some of the Jedi’s daughters. So to speak.”

What an intriguing turn of phrase, from a Jedi.

“I am prepared to seek volunteers from the Order, though I cannot promise how many may accept.” He shifts in his seat, leaning back, blue-grey eyes watching her for the faintest flicker.

“Good.” She remarks flatly, lips twitching up. “I can’t promise how many may return to you – if you accept them back at all, having studied our teachings.”

“Jedi Shadows are at more liberty in their studies than others.” He returns, focused with intent. “This exchange would not – and can not - be privy to the Order at large. Nor should it be made blatant to anyone outside our two peoples. Our enemy will likely not long be oblivious to our moving against him, but we can at least hope to pass unassaulted for a time.”

“I am well aware of the peril, Jedi.” Talzin remarks. She _has_ actually met the foul creature calling himself Sith. “And of the Jedi’s inability to make any agreement in good faith with those they consider _unfavorable_.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then huffs. “Let’s not pretend you’re suffering more risk than I am, Mother Talzin. I’m well aware that your culture cares little for its sons. They’ll be no loss to you save less mouths to feed. You’re sending us those you don’t desire to receive training you don’t have to put any effort into, and I am sending you highly skilled Knights whose talents and expertise we sorely need for the times ahead. But we both know the stakes, don’t we? You saw what will happen.”

“I saw what _you_ saw happen.” Talzin replies dryly.

His mouth curves upwards. “The future is always in motion?” He teases caustically. Talzin taps her nails on the stonework, and allows him his hollow amusement. Destiny was not a straight line, and fate was more whimsical than the wind. All power lay in the Now, and all visions were only warnings, or lessons.

But his existence was more than a vision, unwritten or no.

“Are we agreed, Harbinger?” Talzin questions dryly.

His eyes flash. “As much as we can be, Mother.”

She nods. “You may take any of the Nightbrothers whom show promise by your standards.” She tells him, trusting – and wasn’t that galling, to _trust_ Jedi – that they would not steal from Dathomir an entire generation.

He dips his head in acquiescence, lips quirking wryly. “Provided we can _find_ my Padawan’s ship to take us there?” He reminds her.

She lifts a brow, allowed her own amusements too. “It has not moved.”

Not that the Nightsisters would _not_ mind to steal it, but they had very few transports – _old_ transports – and even fewer who knew how to fly them. They preferred to keep to themselves, and left their own star system rarely. A ship like that would only fall to disrepair in their hands.

He sighs, letting the taunt go. “Very well, thank you.” He says with clipped primness. “Then there is one other matter I believe you and I must address-“

“Must we?” She muses.

A hard, flat look, so easily roused.

“I won’t risk either of us by asking you to attempt to spy on Sideous. I know exactly where he is. I would ask if you know anything of his Master, but the peril is just as great to move your efforts in that direction, is it not?” His concern is genuine, though his tone is still somewhat caustic. That storm inside of him is stirring. How long, she wonders, does he think he can keep it so tightly leashed? Power was not meant to be bottled.

Talzin shakes her head dismissively.

All she knew of Darth Sideous’s master was the apprentice’s hatred, fear, and sickly adoration of him – and she did assume it was a _him_ of some fashion or another. Sideous had displayed reprehensible misogynistic tendencies during even their briefest interaction, and had not even looked at the daughters of her clan, when seeking an heir – or rather a tool - for his power.

For which she had been bitterly relieved.

“Then I _will_ ask you if you can help me find Maul Oppress.”

Yes, she had suspected the Jedi might get around to that.

~*~

“You look peeved.” Quinlan teases, hands coming down on Obi-Wan’s shoulder from behind, jostling the younger teen.

“I think that little furball from yesterday ate the plush Aayla gave me. I can’t find it.” Obi-Wan complains, glad at least that the little glass bird his master gave him he kept strung on a leather cord, which was currently around his neck. Jedi ought not covert material possessions, but he’d have sorely missed it.

“I have about twenty of those, if you want another one.” Quinlan shrugs.

Obi-Wan gives him a fond, slightly exasperated look, and shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled if I ask her to make me a new one. She’s getting rather good at making them.”

“Her crechemaster’s torn because Aayla’s greatest display of patience has to do with needle-hooks and thread.” Quinlan smiles, and Obi-Wan feels something his chest ease at the genuine tease of light swelling from the other padawan. “But they make nice gifts to the initiates who can’t keep a pet for one reason or another, and the rest either end up in my quarters or mailed off to charity, else the creche would be overrun with them.”

“I think I saw some hidden in among all those potted gardens.” Obi-Wan muses. “Now that I think about it.”

Quinlan snorts, nodding. “The Temple’s a different place these days.”

Obi-Wan looks over, thoughtful. “Yeah. It is.”

Master Narec and Padawan Ventress spend most of the morning meditating and then sparring, and everyone else gives them a bit of peace to do so. Quinlan and Obi-Wan spar a bit, and do a little exploring, though thy can sense enough hunt-intent and hunger deeper in the trees not to go tripping over any predators. The architecture is old, very old, and Quinlan sighs loudly and yawns often when Obi-Wan speculates out loud on its possible origins. The Nightsister’s are not the original inhabitants of Dathomir, according to record, but what predated them is uncertain. Obi-Wan ignores his friend being obnoxious, and Quinlan just shrugs, saying there isn’t much memory left in the stones that he can pick up on.

Merrin comes to collect them just past the height of Datohmir’s day, one more resolving out of a shadow, her little sticky-pawed companion in tow.

“What even is that thing?” Quinlan asks.

“Sneak is a _dakunn_.” Merrin replies succinctly, turning her nose up the teenager like he’s an idiot. It’s both adorable and offensive. “I has to hold your hand.” She crinkles up her nose.

“Sorry?” Obi-Wan offers. She peers at him, and then grins brightly, bursting into a fit of giggles. Quinlan eyes her dubiously.

Obi-Wan offers his hand, shooting Quinlan a pointed look, and Quinlan just leans back a little, affronted. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, and Merrin latches on to his fingers, Sneak taking a curious nibble of his boot, dark maroon fur twitching.

She pulls, and Obi-Wan follows, and what happens next he finds very difficult to describe, mostly because its over almost as soon as its started.

Quinlan frowns at the empty space where they just walked through a shadow to some unknown, and Merrin bursts back out in what seems like only seconds. He wonders how far they can travel, like that, fairly certain that they are travelling. Somehow.

He takes her hand, smaller than Aayla’s, clammier too, and when they arrive – wherever they arrive, he looks around and scowls.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”


	42. Chapter 42

“Um…there’s nothing here?” Obi-Wan questions, looking down.

“Duh.” Merrin rolls her eyes. “Mama Daka has to test you firs’. It’s only _fair_.” She stretches the word out exaggeratively the way young children are want to, and then steps away and is just - _gone_.

Leaving Obi-Wan….in the middle of the swamp.

“Lovely.” He mutters. “I’d better not have to fight a rancor.”

Someone chuckles, and Obi-Wan whirls, hand dropping to his saber on instinct, only to find… a Jedi, stepping out of the mists and the shadow of trees. “I’ve done that.”

A young man strolls out of the shadowy, shimmery murk, only a scant five or so years Obi-Wan’s elder. He seemed familiar, like someone Obi-Wan has caught a glance of, but certainly he’s no one the padawan has ever actually met. He’s tall, with curling dark blonde hair and one brow marked by a long, thin scar. A saber scar, perhaps? He carried himself – much like Master Ben carried himself, with martial bearing in his shoulders, and a dangerous grace in his stride – but with a bit more exaggeration, far less reserved.

His eyes distract – one a fair blue and the other a gleaming, unsettling gold.

But what was another Jedi doing on Dathomir?

“Do I know you?” Obi-Wan asks. He seems so _familiar_.

The young man laughs, smiling indulgently, like the question was a joke. “You’ll figure that out some day.” He replies.

Obi-Wan frowns, and the young Knight shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Obi-Wan. I have something I think might be yours.” He steps forward, holding out a gloved hand and uncurling his fingers to reveal-

The plush.

Only it’s not a plush anymore. It stretches in the Knight’s hand and yawns, revealing tiny teeth and blinking glossy eyes almost too big for its skull. Obi-Wan reaches out and the Knight drops it in his palms, the little impossible mythosaur’s heartbeat a fluttering, brilliant thing against his skin, and Obi-Wan cradles it in awe.

The Knight smiles, and steps back. “Life is precious, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan looks up. “Of course.” He replies.

The Knights smile turns sad.

The tiny mythosaur twitches and squirms, and Obi-Wan looks down, worried he may be holding it incorrectly. It feels so fragile.

A tiny orange snout nuzzles his palm, ticklish and new, small nubs of tusk-horns prodding at his skin.

It stretches and twists, and _grows_.

Lazy movement turns to distress, to writhing, in his palm, and a plaintive reptilian churring sound rises to a pained squalling. Limbs and tail sprawl and spread over the edges of his hands, Obi-Wan trying to hold on, not knowing why it felt so _wrong_. He tries to help, but it’s terrified, and it bites him, tiny teeth turned far more savage as it continues its grotesque, unnatural, escalated growth.

It gets too heavy for him, outgrowing his palms, and the bite burns. He drops it, or it falls – it’s hard to tell. Obi-Wan drops to his knees, hands hovering. He can help it, can't he?

“I’m sorry.” He begs. “I’m sorry. It’s alright. It’s alright.” Were mythosaur’s venomous? He doesn’t know. He lays a hand on its hide, which is slick and hot and plated. Its spine seems to undulate and spasm, straining under taught, swelling flesh, lungs heaving with effort. It _shrieked_ , and his attempts at healing seemed paltry and useless.

It was in such pain.

A clawed foot kicks, knocking him over, and Obi-Wan scrambles back as it outgrows him. The tail thrashing, heavy head and neck yanking to and for, body twisting. Claws scour the ground, tearing up the loam. The tail flicks and crashes down, hitting water. It rolls, snarling, and rises, massive shoulders knocking into trees, tusks catching and breaking branches. It lifts its head, straining, all _confusion-fear-aggression;_ everything new and threatening and terrifying to it. It was just a child, wasn’t it? He’d just held it in his palms. It knew nothing. It was only _scared_.

Obi-Wan tries to calm it, tries to soothe. “It’s alright.” He murmurs. Reaching out with the Force, trying to connect. He knew he could, he just had to keep trying-

The mythosaur roars, the sound all fury.

Its step shudders the ground, weight sinking into the earth. Its movement tears apart the trees that confined it. Even the water around them trembles, birds and other creatures fleeing. A shake of it’s mighty head, sweeping with long, heavy tusk-horns, and an entire swath is leveled in snapping roots and spraying dirt.

It turns, large, predator eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, and makes a low, guttural sound, muscles quivering from snout to tail-tip with intent.

 _No, no no no_. Obi-Wan had the terrible, dreadful, _bad_ feeling that it’s just seen the Citadel, just scented all those people. Its jaws part slightly, chest expanding as it breathes in deep.

Obi-Wan lifts a hand, reaches out with the Force, and _yanks_.

“You pay attention to _me_!” He shouts, the demand desperate. Scaled hide quivers, limbs rocking as it shifts, mass still increasing, lips peeling back over grisly teeth as it bucks his efforts.

“Hey! Is you _done_ -“ Merrin darts out of the shadows, coming right up beside him, looks up, and screams high and shrill.

She bolts.

“Merrin!” Obi-Wan gasps, turning after her, and behind him-

Obi-Wan looks up, and the mythosaur is certainly paying attention now.

 _Please please don’t_. He prays, drawing his saber, feeling pathetically ill equipped. The mythosaur was a _mountain_ of _suffering-confusion-hunger_. He can feel pain wracking through its body, feel the stress of new muscle, tearing and growing, bones stretching and aching, skin straining, and the deep, gnawing, desperate hunger.

A single step takes it over his head, blotting out the sky, following the enticement of dashing prey, and Obi-Wan tries again to reach out, to connect, to draw it back. He throws all his will at it, and his efforts can’t seem to break through the instincts and the sheer overwhelming stimulation that drives it. Another step nearly crushes him, and it’s figuring out how to walk, how move, how to hold itself up. Obi-Wan moves quickly, and still the whip of its tail catches him, throwing him.

The blow hurts, but he catches himself with the Force and lands decently. The mythosaurs awkward gait picks up speed, and Obi-Wan runs, praying to the _Ka’ra_ and to the Force and to anyone or anything else that might be listening that Merrin has already taken herself far, far away, that fear doesn’t get the better of her too.

It stumbles, sinking into swamp, and thrashes, roaring again, shaking the world. There’s a shattering crack of breaking bone, and Obi-Wan flinches. The roar turns shrill, and it thrashes harder in a flood of panic.

“No, no, no.” Obi-Wan runs. “You’re hurting yourself.”

It’s not hard to follow, though he leaps over scoured ground and upturned trees and flooding new pools. The tail lashes to and fro when he approaches it from behind, the devastated vegetation having already suffered for it. Obi-Wan skirts the edge of its range as best he can and still ends up ducking. One hind leg scrabbles at the dirt, churning putrid muck and mud, even scorning bloody lines across its own hide. The other is sunk deep into brackish, glowing water. The neck cranes back, arcing painfully, and Obi-Wan can see the pale just of bone splitting through the flesh of it’s shoulder, unable to bear its own massive weight.

The padawan’s eyes water, and he blinks furiously. It wasn’t _fair_.

Ragged, whuffing breath echoes, Obi-Wan can even hear the massive, overburdened heart pounding, can all but feel it through his boots, through the ground.

“Are you just going to let it suffer?” The Knight walks up beside him, seeming to materialize out of the mist, his darker tunics blending right in, mismatched eyes watching him curiously.

“W-what?” Obi-Wan’s voice shakes, the question barely making it out of his throat.

“Look at it.” The Knight demands, nodding towards the weakening mythosaur. “It’s in pain. It’s scared. And all it can do is destroy. Look around you.”

Blood stains the orange hide, spreading a dark stain through the glowing waters. It warbles, low in its throat, a wet, raspy, sorrowful sound.

Sweat rolls down his spine, and tears crawl down his face. Obi-Wan grips his saber, the bite on his hand searing, and hesitantly walks forward.

Gleaming eyes rolls, slitted pupils expanding and contracting, and it focuses on him, snarling as it swings its massive head low, barely able to hold it aloft. Heat washes over him from its breath, and Obi-Wan stares up in rooted, fearful awe.

It loses the battle, and the head sinks to the ground, nostrils flaring, legs shifting weakly, all its strength sputtering out. Obi-Wan swallows, lifting a trembling hand, and gently brings himself forward, resting it on its snout. It still feels fragile, all ticklish and new.

Obi-Wan chokes down a sob, draws his hand back, and scrubs at his eyes.

It wasn’t _fair_.

He blinks them open, his knuckles white over his saber, and he looks over the massive crown, the monumental tusk-horns, across the muscular neck and hard sternum. The massive body shudders, twitching involuntarily with grievous pain.

Obi-Wan reaches up, for the hard ridges along it’s towering snout, and levers himself up. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs. “I’m so sorry. It’s alright.” His voice chokes. “It’ll be alright.”

He has to boost himself up with the Force, and he walks along the leathery snout, between the ridges of its eyes. The gaze strikes at him, because he can see himself perfectly reflected in the black gap of the pupil. There is a soft spot, at the back of the skull, and Obi-Wan stops there, holding his lightsaber in front of him, and just… stops, the blade unlit.

He stands there, staring down at it, feeling breath shift the body beneath his feel, feeling a pulse thunder like a storm.

Life is precious.

The Knight just stands there, arms crossed, mis-matched eyes watching Obi-Wan with expectation, and Obi-Wan – _hates him_ , a little, though he can’t articulate exactly why.

Another tear trails down the edge of his nose, and Obi-Wan sniffles, and ignites his saber.

It _is_ suffering, and it isn’t fair.

The deep jade color burns vibrantly in contrast to the rich orange hide, and Obi-Wan takes a breath, turns his blade, falling into one of the simplest of Shii-Cho forms, and drives down, the stroke quick and steady.

The mythosaur doesn’t thrash. Doesn’t cry out. Its body gives a single, shuddering quake, and it sighs its last breath.

Obi-Wan disengages his blade, reattaching the saber to his belt, and lets himself cry as he climbs down, staggering away from the body.

The quiet, the stillness, it is deafening around him.

“Death is precious too.” The Knight says.

Obi-Wan swipes angrily at his tears and glares at the other Jedi. The Knight is looking up at the great beast with nothing but respect, and a quiet, deep sort of understanding.

“That was awful.” Obi-Wan grits out. “That was the most awful thing I’ve ever done.”

“Good.” The Knight nods, looking to him. “Remember that, and remember this; Death can be a kindness.”

“I don’t understand.” Obi-Wan shakes his head, feeling hollow and shaky and that everything was _wrong_.

“Well,” The Knight suggests calmly. “ you could have just walked away.”

Obi-Wan recoils. “I couldn’t have.” He swears. What he had done felt wretched, but that would have been – unmitigably cruel.

The Knight smiles. “You could have.” He corrects. “But you didn’t.”

Obi-Wan – Obi-Wan – _hurts_.

“Who are you?” He demands.

“That’s never the right question, Obi-Wan.” The Knight smiles crookedly, all charm and friendliness and something dangerous lurking underneath. He’s seen Quinlan smile like that. “The question is who _could_ I be?”

Something clicks, in the back of the padawans brain, dawning deep in his gut. “This isn’t real.” He says.

“Oh,” The Knight demurs, turning away. “ I think real depends greatly on your point of view, don’t you?”

Obi-Wan growls, squeezing his eyes shut, fists clenching, and focuses inward. The world resists, crowding in, and Obi-Wan pulls back and pulls back and something gives. When he opens his eyes, he’s alone. The ground isn’t ravaged and uprooted. The fog doesn’t smell of blood and fear. Water whispers quietly where the Mythosaur had been slain.

Obi-Wan walks over to the spot anyways, and his bones ache, everything in him aches with sorrow. He takes his lightsaber in hand and stares at it.

 _Did I really_ …?

He’s never killed anything before.

He could turn away and say it wasn’t real. But that wouldn’t be true, would it? That would just…just be lying to himself. Because the choice he had made – that had been.

 _I took a life_.

“I took a life.” He confesses to the wilderness, and the sound of his own voice makes his ears ring.

He shivers.

“... _ehh_ di! J _ehhhhhh_ di!”

Obi-Wan turns, and he can hear Merrin calling for him.

“Are you lost?” She hollers, shrill voice echoing through the trees. She’s not far, and Obi-Wan starts in her direction. “J _ehhhh_ di!”

“No.” Obi-Wan calls out. “I’m not…” He pauses, just to breathe. “I’m not lost.” He calls back. “I’m right here.”

She comes trotting out of the murk with all the grace of a newborn eeopie and bounces up to him, her _dakunn_ ambling in her wake. “Mama Daka says you passed, I guess.” She announces, holding out her hand.

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan murmurs, though he’s not sure it was worth it. He looks down at his lightsaber again, sighs, clipping it to his belt, and takes her hand.


	43. Chapter 43

Ben returns to camp after a long morning of patient waiting interspersed with carefully navigating dangerous and contrary conversations with Mother Talzin and the occasional Nightsister only to find he’s missed his padawan in leaving it, and when Obi-Wan returns, he seems remarkably affected. Ben looks curiously to Quinlan, but the kiffar padawan just shrugs and heads off to find supper and his own master.

“Was the lesson that trying?” Ben inquires, diverting his padawan away from the domicile for a moment, walking up to the nearest bridge and leaning against the rail, water burbling quietly beneath them.

“Not the lesson, no.” Obi-Wan replies subduedly. He lays his hands on the stone rail, and stares at them. Ben frowns at the faded marks of what looks like a mostly healed bite, but doesn’t let it distract him.

“Obi-Wan?” Ben prompts gently, after a minute of silence.

“The Test.” His padawan says quietly. “Was… I took a life.”

Ben’s first instinct is to ask questions, and possibly to track down some Witches with malice aforethought, but he curbs it, lets his padawan do this in his own time. Obi-Wan’s blue-green gaze was far away and deeply contemplative, his hands curled tightly to the railing. “Not in self-defense, not for survival, but…. because it was suffering, and it could not live. So I killed it.”

The red-haired teen drags his gaze away from the waters and up to his master. “It was… I suppose it was only an illusion, but I didn’t know that in the moment. It was like a dream - it _felt_ real, and the choice I made was real, wasn’t it?”

Ben sigh softly in understanding, in empathy, and nods. It’s one thing, as a Jedi, to understand that lives will be lost, some of them at your own hand, through the line of duty. It was another, no matter how thorough your training, to actually have taken a life, have _felt_ something die, and have been the cause, whether in kindness or in cruelty or because you have no other option. “Are you alright?” He asks.

“I…” Obi-Wan closes his mouth, sighs tensely, and tries again. “I don’t know yet. I feel…cold. And sad. And angry. For myself and…and for the life I took. It was a _mythosaur_ – and I should have realized it couldn’t be real, they’re _extinct_ , but…it was beautiful. Terrifying, but…” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “But I feel relieved too, I think.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, master. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“It does.” Ben reassures him, looking at the new wisdom in his padawan’s gaze, the new understanding of the world, and of himself. Ben himself had touched death far too early in life, and far more brutally. But he’s managed to protect his padawan remarkably well, all told. Perhaps _too_ well, out of regret for the fact that he was never able to protect his grandpadawan in the same way, and in an attempt to avoid giving his padawan the same emotional scars Ben had earned on the gamut of missions he and Qui-Gon had been assigned. Obi-Wan’s training was far more rigorous, but it had also included far less fieldwork than Ben’s had, and Ben – in spite of the challenges – had kept careful control over Obi-Wan’s experience.

He still regrets that the lesson ought to be learned at all, but it is one that Obi-Wan, he fears, will sorely need.

They fall quiet, Obi-Wan looking up and out, staring at the few glittering stars they can see through the streaky clouds.

Eventually, his padawan takes a long breath and sighs deeply.

“Come on, Obi-Wan. Let’s get you something to eat.” Ben suggests, laying a hand on his shoulder, promising him he was right there with him.

“I’m not really hungry, master.” Obi-Wan says. “I’m just… I think I just want to go to bed.”

“I know.” Ben says, knowing that feeling _too_ well. He also knows that sleep will likely not come easily to his padawan just yet, his mind a sparking hive, in spite of his physical lethargy. “But you need to eat.”

Obi-Wan make a short, disgruntled sound low in his throat, but defers to his master on the matter, nodding reluctantly in resignation.

Ben squeezes his shoulder, leaning in to briefly touch their temples together, and Obi-Wan tuns into the gesture. A shiver passes over his growing shoulders, and he nods tightly before pulling back, gathering himself, and together they walk back inside.

~*~

“Oh, where is my padawan when I need him?” Tholme grumbles halfheartedly, picking his way carefully along swamp trails.

“One does wonder,” Master Narec replies dryly, one foot slipping on the mud and almost ending up in another hidden sinkhole. “ how we ever managed without them.”

Naasade had offered to escort Padawan Ventress to Mother Talzin for the day, clearly with his own agenda in the effort as well; Master Narec has ruefully acknowledged that it would be difficult for his Padawan to truly get to know her people if her Jedi Master was constantly hovering over her shoulder. Quinlan and Obi-Wan were likewise off with the old Witch, learning – Force knows what, really.

So it fell to Tholme and Master Narec to retrace their steps and find Kenobi’s ship, as the Nightsisters laughingly declined to guide them back to it.

“My life was quiet, without my padawan.” Tholme remarks, eyeing a flash of movement under the waterway beside them. “And I didn’t get into half as much trouble.”

“Ha.” Narec laughs. “To my chagrin, Asajj has actually done what my master never managed to do – and teach me to get into trouble _less_. Gods, I was never so cautious as to when she was little.” The long haired man shakes his head. “Though I dare say that’s precisely the reason I’ve survived this long.”

Tholme feels one corner of his mouth pull up at that. He’s met the type – Quinlan may seem wild, but there are Jedi just as bad if not worse for diving straight into trouble who get away with it far more often simply because they manage to _appear_ so much more reasonable in their demeanor. If Quinlan ever mastered feigning solemnity…

“As Master Yoda delights in reminding everyone-“

“Good students, teachers make.” Narec finishes for him. “Is Master Yoda still well, then?”

“Still refusing to retire and smacking errant masters about the knees with that vicious stick of his? Yes.” Tholme replies wryly. “Master Yoda is quite well.” He’s quite certain that when Master Yoda finally passes, every Jedi in the galaxy would feel it.

“Gods, I miss home.” Narec mutters with feeling, wiping the dampness from his face. The humidity was thick, the dark clothes – though appreciated as a gesture of goodwill – were _hot_ – and the insects were plenty. Everything felt sticky.

“It’ll be a different place than you remember.” Tholme says, frowning as the path divides, checking his comp-nav on his belt for direction. “But I believe we’re better for it.”

“Well, Asajj won’t be the only one out of depth, then.” Narec says, coming up beside him and glancing at the path, and then the sky, turning slowly and trying to illicit some sense of familiarity in their surroundings. It was rather difficult – the swamp twisted and turned, the mists obscured, and everything was very similar. Not to mention that their memory was possibly compromised by the mind-snare that had enthralled them upon arrival. “Which I imagine she’ll take comfort it.”

“The young adapt quickly.” Tholme nods. “This way, I think. That direction, at least.” He gestures. Narec looks…dubious, but shrugs, hardly having any better sense of it himself.

“Better than us old-timers?” Narec lifts a brow, waving away some insect buzzing by his ear.

“Speak for yourself.” Tholme mutters grousely, and then eyes the man up and down, conceding a bit. Narec’s lived a decade on an underdeveloped world with minimal resources – it’s no wonder he’s feeling his years. “Eh, you’ll be a whole new man when the Healers are done with you, no doubt.”

Narec pauses, lips pursing. “On second thought, I might just stay here.” He grumbles, and Tholme barks a laugh.

~*~

Quinlan sicks up, horrifically, nauseatingly dizzy. “I don’t know what I did other than make myself nauseated.” He mutters bitterly, feeling his insides lurch and squirm uncomfortably.

“Gross.” Merrin scrunches up her nose, perched on a stool with an actual print and paper book on her lap, Sneak napping on her shoulder, delicate snout tucked into the collar of the girls shirt. It was kind of cute, Quinlan admitted, thinking Aayla would love having a _real_ little monster for a companion. The crechemaster had declined to allow her a pet derbit on account that her first question had been whether or not she was supposed to eat it raw. Quinlan doesn’t think it’s necessarily her fault that small lizards were a hazard of a rylothi diet, but… it was what it was, he guessed.

Lessons in Shadow-Walking were not off to an auspicious start. It clearly wasn’t the simplest of the Nightsister’s techniques to start off with, but as Old Daka said – Merrin wasn’t an errand girl. Daka lived out away from the rest of the Nightsister’s, where she was less likely to be disturbed, so it would be quite a hike for them to just walk to their lessons.

So.

Shadow-Walking.

“Why shadows?” Obi-Wan asks, having been meditating after a few failed attempts of walking into the stone wall, his attempts having resulted in headaches. “If it’s teleportation, how or why do the shadows figure in to it?”

“Shadow is the medium by which you move, boy.” Old Daka intones from her table by the hearth, pressing some kind of herb and extracting the oils, her hands seeming to dance as she worked, murmuring a low chant of some kind, repetitive and slightly lulling.

“But is it symbolic? Is it a door? Does it matter how deep the shadow is? How dark?”

“You have to fit.” Merrin chimes in. “I can go through _small_ shadows, but you’s not as little as me.” Old Daka gestures to the little girl, clearly implying that Merrin was far more clever than they were. Quinlan scowls grumpily, but Obi-Wan is too polite.

“You think too much with your head.” Old Daka informs them bluntly. “You ask too many questions. Can you not accept that some things simply are?”

“I have _faith_ , Madame Daka.” Obi-Wan replies primly, and Quinlan feels his lips twitch upwards as his friend gets snippy. “But I’m still not getting it.”

And if Obi-Wan’s not getting it – well, he was kinda better at these sort of things than Quinlan was, if that was any indication. Quinlan liked _logic_.

The old woman sighs, lips pursing, clouded gaze drifting over their heads impatiently.

“Light has a source.” She says, scowling. “It comes from somewhere, every light its own possession. This is not true of darkness. Darkness is simple, it is constant. Every shadow is the same shadow. All darkness in the galaxy the same darkness.”

Obi-Wan stares back at her, a fierce frown of concentration on his face, clearly willing himself to understand.

For a minute.

Two.

“Provenance.” He states simply, abruptly, eyes widening. “ _Ni di’kut_.” He swears, and Quinlan scowls, because its not fair for his friend to swear in a language Quinan can’t appreciate. “It’s about _provenance_.”

“Isn’t that… an archive thing?” Quinlan inquires, arms crossed. “Enlighten me to your epiphany, I beg you.” He drawls.

“Quinlan, we’re not going anywhere.” The younger teenager states, one of those jubilant, frenzied looks of sudden comprehension on his face that was both adorable and annoying.

“Yeah, man, I noticed.” Quinlan snarks.

“No it’s – “ Obi-Wan pauses, turning. “ – thank you, Madame Daka, I think I understand – it’s like Force Structures. Kind of. It’s about perception and actualizing the shape of things. Just… on a bigger scale. Way bigger. But don’t think of it like that.” He shakes his head, getting ahead of himself.

“That thing I’m not good at?” Quinlan reminds him, just shy of outright snappish, his anger too easy to rile. _It’s not Obi-Wan’s fault_ , Quinlan reminds himself harshly. An impatient _It’s mine_ sitting sourly in his stomach.

“Sorry.” Obi-Wan mutters. “It’s – don’t think about _travelling_ somewhere. Think about it like… like that place is coming to you. When we step into the shadow – we’re already _there_. _Here_. Whatever. Because it’s _the same shadow_.”

“Obi-Wan.” Quinlan says.

“Yes?”

“Walk into the wall again.” Quinlan suggests, deadpan.

His friend gives him a dirty look, turns, and - _doesn’t_ walk into the wall.

“Oh you karking berk.” Quinlan mutters. Obi-Wan really _had_ figured it out. “Okay! Come back and explain it better!” He shouts, figuring Obi-Wan hadn’t gone far.

Obi-Wan falls out of the ceiling, and Merrin giggles uproariously. Honestly, the little girl _cackles_.

“ _Osik_.” The red-haired teen mutters, bruised, as he picks himself up.

“There may be hope for you yet.” Madame Daka remarks blithely.

“Yeah, yeah.” Quinlan rolls his eyes and helps the other teen to his feet when Obi-Wan winces, favoring one of his shins. “Feel sick?” He asks.

“No, because I’m no longer trying to shove myself through the fabric of the universe.” Obi-Wan retorts. “Like an idiot.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Quinlan catches Old Daka smirking at that. Quinlan bites down on any retaliatory urges, and focuses on his friend instead. “Great. Teach me.”

Obi-Wan makes him sit down first, clearly intent on meditating on his newfound understanding before trying again, and Quinlan wishes he hadn’t picked up that habit quite so easily. Younger padawans were fun because they _didn’t_ prefer to sit still for hours on end.

“Think of it as…. as the shadow being an extradimensional space.” Obi-Wan tries.

Quinlan shifts, settling down and tapping his fingers in his legs. “Why?”

“Because it exists simultaneously in two places – or, well, _everyplace_ \- at once, yet in neither.” Obi-Wan says. Quinlan has a fair understanding of quantum theory, and still he sighs, giving Obi-Wan a flat look. Obi-Wan just smiles encouragingly, a bit of a challenge in his gaze which he knows Quinlan won’t be able to resist. The younger teen is clearly trying to make this make sense for him, so he tries to be more appreciative, even if he’s a little…jealous. Possibly bitter. “So when you step into it, you also exist in both – where you are and where you want to be - simultaneously and yet in neither. But only in the act of passing. You don’t stay there. You step through that place, and when you step out, you have to be in one place, or the other.”

Quinlan squints painfully. “That’s…. _really_ not possible. I _can’t_ exist in two places at the same time. I’m a discreet physical entity.”

“Yes, you can.”

“How?”

Obi-Wan grins. “Magick.”

“Oh, I hate you.” Quinlan snaps. “I’m going to smother you in your sleep.”

“You tried that last night.” Obi-Wan points out smugly.

“You were taking up too much space.”

“I’m smaller than you are.” Obi-Wan protests, rocking back a little. “But seriously, Que. Get yourself to believe, even just a little. Have a little trust in the world, Que. Trust that it will catch you.”

Quinlan grinds his teeth. _Trust_ , he really wasn’t good at.

“I know it’s not how your brain is wired, but… the shadow is the same shadow. Where the shadow is is therefore ultimately irrelevant.”

“I think it’s a _little_ relevant.” Quinlan mutters, looking over to Old Daka. “How far can someone Shadow-Walk? Can I accidentally end up in space?”

Obi-Wan pales, clearly not having considered that.

“However far your power can take you.” Old Daka replies vaguely. “Legend says the Night Witch herself could cross whole star systems. Most of our daughters never manage farther than the far side of this continent.”

“That didn’t answer my question about ending up in black space.” Quinlan points out.

“Hmph.” Old Daka shakes her head. “Learn to guide yourself, _feel_ your place in the world, and you won’t.”

“Great.” Quinlan mutters. “So helpful.”


	44. Chapter 44

They meet up in the evenings for a late supper. Master Tholme and Master Narec having been turned back from their task after encountering a nest of very unhappy rancors, and Quinlan snickers at his master’s misfortune, promising to help them before his lessons. Quinlan, much to his own disappointment, did not get the knack of Shadow-Walking, but as Obi-Wan did – and could walk Quinlan with him – Old Daka was impatient to move onto other techniques. Nightister training was less guided than Jedi training, the lessons and theories explained and demonstrated by a mentor, but much of the practice done on a Witch’s own, or with her age-mates. It didn’t seem the safest route to take, but Magick _wasn’t_ safe. That was part of the lesson.

Obi-Wan was proving to be less proficient at those lessons. The Living Force was not his specialty, and the Nightsisters magicks channeled the pure Living Force almost exclusively.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn would have been irretractable until he’d studied every facet, no doubt.

Padawan Ventress’s lessons were of a slightly different nature. Mother Talzin liked to speak with her of history, and philosophy. She walks her through the gardens the Temple keeps, explaining purposes and traditions. She takes care to introduce her to members of the Clan, to show her their way of life. The young Dathomiri, for the most part, finds herself invested, even enjoying the days, but some practices….

The treatment of males in Dathomiri society was, to her, irreconcilable to her own morality. She’d never be able to accept it, having lived the life she had.

“Are you surprised?” Ben inquires, retreating back into the Temple with Talzin after leaving Asajj with a set of archers intent on a hunt. Apparently, that rancor’s nest Tholme and Narec had stumbled upon had turned aggressive for being disturbed, and needed to be dealt with. The Nightsisters – and Ben - were all pleasantly surprised to find that hunting was a practice with which Padawan Ventress was well familiar.

“Master Ky and I couldn’t live solely on hand-outs.” The teenager had muttered in her own defense. Ben tried to explain that it hadn’t been an admonishment, but the easy welcome of the other hunters seemed to sooth the girl’s bristling pride well enough, so Ben let it be. He found interacting with Asajj Ventress to be... difficult.

“One always hopes their children come home, Jedi.” Mother Talzin remarks, watching the hunters set off before turning inside.

Ben frowns thoughtfully, studying the woman who allows it with only a single imperious look, striding past him. “She hasn’t decided yet.” Ben says kindly.

“She has.” Mother Talzin replies, her tone warning him to drop that line of conversation in clipped, overlapping tones. “She simply has yet to admit it.”

She leads him past the alter room, a path they’ve taken a few times now, and deeper into the Temple, to her workroom. The whispers are louder there, but just as indistinct to his ears, and he can almost feel ghostly touches brushing past him. He’d asked if they were illusions, and she’d dryly told him she wouldn’t waste the effort for his benefit.

He hadn’t asked for any further clarification. The Living Force was so potent here he could practically feel his own life energy bleeding through his skin, mingling with other energies, as if the barrier between him and all other living things was thinned to the point of dissolving. It wasn’t like below, where the potency of the planet drowning out everything else. Here… _other_ things seemed to linger.

It wasn’t exactly a comforting feeling, and Ben kept his shields locked tight, feeling them tested.

“I’ve constructed the talisman to help you track Maul.” She says briskly, shifting through various materials and projects, coming up with a box. Mother Talzin could scry upon him at will, but that was less useful when Ben wasn’t here on Dathomir, and Mother Talzin had proposed to him a Talisman of Finding, and then dismissed him so she could work without much more explanation than that. “Though it would be more effective if its power came from you.”

“And what would that require?” Ben asks warily. Talzin smiles grimly, the expression a taunt of his reluctance.

“The talismans connection to the one you seek is only as strong as the bond between the creator, and what is desired. What connection I have to Maul is paltry at best.” She informs him succinctly, carrying the box over to a wide basin of magick waters. “Your connection to him, I sense, holds much more power.”

“And how do you utilize my connection to him?” Ben reiterates his inquiry, crossing his arms. Magicks seemed to rely upon much more…intimate involvement, than the Force.

“I don’t.” Talzin replies, dark nails trailing in the water, invoking it to swirl. “That, you would have to do.”

“I know exactly nothing at all of magicks, Mother.” Ben says patiently, if tensely.

“And yet I sense the power in you. Perhaps you called it something else.” She looks him over, moonlight eyes glittering.

Ben takes a deep breath and sighs. “Lovely.” He mutters. “What am _I_ to do, then?” He knows he can’t refuse, and she knows he won’t. But he had to let her have her amusement, at least.

The water hisses and steams, and she lifts the talisman, an intricately made disc on a simple cord, and dips it in the basin. Light flickers over the surface; discordant, displaced images struggling to form cohesiveness.

“Draw him close to you, in your mind. You know his face, don’t you? See it.” She instructs.

Ben doesn’t even have to close his eyes. He knows every tattooed detail, every blackened tooth, every grisly shade of yellow and red in his eyes. There had scarcely been a day in the last twenty years where Maul did not _haunt_ him, in dread silence or with that crooning, deceptively soft voice that spewed venom and hatred and coy cruelty.

“What binds you to him?” The whispers, a dozen voices overlapping a dozen voices, drag at his ears, at his mind, slipping coyly through his shields as if they were no more than vapor, delving into memories they have no place trespassing upon-

 _Red ray-shields. Too slow. Too slow. Master, don’t_ -

_“Qui-Gon!”_

_Train the boy. Train him? You didn’t even finish training me_!

Ben shudders, recalling that close brush with the Dark Side, the anger, loss, failure and empty vengeance that accompanied it.

And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Just empty vengeance, round and round, grief after grief, their mere existence each others torment.

_A hulking figure, slightly indistinct in hologram, leaving behind the mangled bodies of more Jedi._

_He can’t be alive._

_I killed him._

_I cut the bastard in half!_

Hollow satisfaction, unbecoming of a Jedi, but enough to have kept him upright at Qui-Gon’s pyre. To bolster him through Anakin’s early years and the boy’s resentment that Ben was _not_ Qui-Gon. Anakin had never outright blamed him for Qui-Gon's loss, but.... Ben had blamed himself plenty enough.

_It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be._

_I avenged my master’s death_.

 _I killed the Sith Apprentice_.

 _Didn’t I_?

Fear. Anger. Bile crawling up his throat, a hot, bitter, acidic rage -

A single alteration of the facts, victory snatched from memory, and everything had shifted, shaking the foundation’s he had built himself upon for years, filling him with doubt, with dread.

And still he had thought he could make it right-

_High, stained glass windows._

_Blue and black beskar’gam – Kyr’stad, Death Watch, living up to their name._

_A black saber, edged in crackling white._

_Satine_.

He had watched, helpless and unable to look away, _again_. Darkness clawing at his belly and every sacrifice he had ever made telling him that letting it out was _wrong_. Knowing she’d never forgive him if he did. He’d begged, tried to reason with a monster-

_I should have left the Order-_

_I should have killed him –_

_I can’t keep doing this._

_I can’t keep losing them_ –

Black edges around his vision, a rush white noise, pain and grief warring for control, tearing him apart in the process-

 _I_ won’t _keep losing them._

 _Maul_ does not _get to keep taking them away from me_.

Ben finds himself gasping, shaking for control of himself, of the emotions and impulses the whispers tease out, prodding and pressing on old wounds. A vice-like grip forms around one trembling hand, Talzin turning his palm upright. “Right here.” She taps his palm with one dark, gleaming nail, where his pulse thunders under ice-cold skin. “Gather it up. Let it _burn_.”

In his minds eye, he can see Maul _sneer_ at him –

Ben snarls, bound to Maul and Maul to him by pain, misery, and vengeance. Fire – emerald green fire, erupts over his palm, dancing along his fingers, blazing dangerously as Ben fights the channel all the writhing, howling emotions roiling inside.

Talzin starts a low murmur, a chant that skitters across his skin, raising all the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, and she never releases his hand, pulling it over to the basin.

The waters catch fire, the chanting rises, and when Talzin releases him to finish her work Ben staggers back, hitting a wall and sliding to the floor, clawing for equilibrium, clenching his fist over the flames in an effort to make it _stop_.

‘ _Master_?!’

Obi-Wan’s alarm cuts through the storm like a beacon, and Ben sucks in first one breath, and then another. Whatever happened, he reminds himself harshly, _hasn’t_ happened _yet_.

And if Ben has his way, never will.

‘ _Are you alright? Where are you_?’

‘ _MASTER_!’

‘ _Not so loud, Obi-Wan_.’ Ben winces, the balance tipping from overwhelmed to exhausted with the forcible shove of outside influence cutting through his brain; wrath, despair, guilt all fading into the familiar, weary ache that never truly leaves him.

‘ _Sorry_.’ A whisper. Ben feels his lips twitch, and he tips his head back against the wall. ‘ _You felt…awful._ ’ His padawan broadcasts, spectacularly understating things. ‘ _Are you okay_?’

‘ _I had…a momentary lapse of control_.’

‘ _Why_?’

‘ _Sith_.’ Ben sends back tiredly, too drained and unsteady at the moment to care to elaborate any better than that. Then he winces, recalling their recent conversation, and realizes that that’s not good enough anymore. ‘ _Mother Talzin and I are… working on something._ ’ He adds. ‘ _I was rather unprepared for the memories it invoked_.’

He can feel Obi-Wan’s piqued interest, but his padawan blessedly doesn’t pry. He just sends him a wealth of soothing calm, and Ben finally feels like he can catch his breath and not fall to pieces.

‘ _Gods, I love you, padawan_.’ Ben thinks gratefully, slumping into the wall behind him.

‘ _I’m glad I can help, master_.’ Obi-Wan sends back warmly, before his focus withdraws elsewhere, but not entirely out of touch.

Ben sighs, and painfully unclenches his fist, nails drawing blood out of the skin. “Green fire.” He murmurs. That had felt…familiar. “Emerald Fire.” He corrects himself. Like Emerald Lightning. A pure expression of energy, channeled by emotion.

“We are done.” Talzin proclaims, stepping aside her table to look down on him, her gaze assessing. “For a man of such power, you are remarkably unskilled as a conduit for it.” She remarks disdainfully, no doubt considering it a waste.

“If there is a better way to channel that sort of power, do enlighten me.” Ben groans, pulling himself up along the wall.

“Enlightening you would take a lifetime.” She mutters derisively, reaching into the now empty basin and scooping out the talisman she’d crafted. The disc looked to be made of dark ivory, and glowed faintly blue, a gentler color than the Waters of Truth.

Ben steps forward to take it, noticing the detail of four points, not unlike a compass, but the sigils around the circle were utterly incomprehensible to him. Some of the Nightsisters practices could be broken down into more familiar concepts, but there was, in truth, a reason it was still considered _Magick_ , and not simply the Force. Not all powers could be explained away, no matter how much research was done and how dedicated they were to doing so.

“Whenever you wish to track him, it will guide you.” Mother Talzin promises, laying it in his palm.

Ben closes his fingers around the talisman gets a flash of cold – snow drifts, cracking ice, the warm glitter of a distant city, a pale, red moon and a vague sense of direction, pulling weakly. He senses Maul is very, very far from this sector of the galaxy.

“So I see.” Ben replies. “Thank you, Mother.” He bows.

She hums, unimpressed, and gestures him out of her workroom.


	45. Chapter 45

“Kindly call me Yen.” The tallest archer pleads, glaring at Talia, the huntress to whom Asajj had been introduced by Mother Talzin, while the red-eyed Nightsister snickers, having introduced the taller huntress as Yennessi.

“Er…alright?” Asajj replies.

“She doesn’t get it, Yen.” The Nightsister beside her interjects, heavier set than most of the other Nightsisters, laying a hand on Yen’s arm and giving Asajj an amused look. “Let’s just say her name is a bit pretentious. I’m Ivenna.”

“Pretentious?” Yen complains, arms crossed. “It’s horrid.”

“Oh.” Asajj mumbles, wondering now what _her_ name sounds like to her people. As if reading the thought off her face, Ivenna laughs and shakes her head, the older woman sympathetic with her confusion. “Don’t worry about it – you’ve got a good one.”

Asajj nods, relieved.

The last Nightsister to join them was Mirjim, who was only a little older than Asajj herself, who was the youngest in the party. They were also joined by a stocky Nightbrother Ivenna introduced as Marrow, her mate. Unlike the Nightbrother’s (who, Asajj had noted uncomfortably, the Nightsisters sometimes simply referred to as _malelings_ ) which brought the Jedi supplies, Marrow wore only a sleeveless shirt over tough pants and went barefoot, showing orange skin with thick black tattoos, and a necklace of what looked like very sharp teeth.

“Don’t worry, you can talk to him. I’m not as jealous as some.” Ivenna winks, and Marrow glances at his mate, glances down, and smiles ruggedly. Mirjim looks at him, looks away, blushes, and Yen rolls her eyes.

Asajj peers at him, feeling exceedingly awkward, but, well, she’s not actually really had a look at a male of her species before. He’s handsome, she supposes, noting the planes of his face, a softer mouth, and that two of his horns were broken. The shadows of scars mark his arms, and even one cheek, but they’re almost invisible amid the lines of orange and black. “Hello.” She says simply.

He looks up, looks over her face, and nods. “Hello. You have very pretty eyes.” He says, utterly polite. Asajj blinks, blushes violet, and Ivenna breaks into a fit of giggles, reaching out to squeeze her mates arm. He shares a curled grin with her, and Talia sighs.

“Don’t take them at all seriously.” Talia says dryly. “They’re incorrigible.”

Asajj just nods, trying to will the blush off her face, and turns the plasma bow she’s been given over in her hands. 

“Oh, come now, Talia, she’s adorable.” Ivenna snickers. “We’re only having fun.”

“I’m ignoring you.” Talia says flatly, shaking her head, and looks Asajj over. “Have you ever used a plasma bow before?”

“No.” Asajj shakes her head. There hadn’t been anything so advanced on Rattattak. All the bows she’d used were hand-made of local materials. “Is it more difficult than a kinetic bow?”

Talia’s brows lift in new estimation, looking over Asajj’s skinny frame. “It’s a lot easier to draw, for one. But you’ve probably noticed the weight is different? We’ll need to get you used to the difference in aim before we actually walk you into a rancors nest. Follow me. We could all use a little warm-up.”

They make their way out of the citadel, to a glade that was clearly well used by the Nightsisters. Paver stones overgrown with moss were all hard packed to form a more or less even surface, and sunken pillars which may once have been statues have clearly been used for archery practice before, going by the carbon marks on the weathered surfaces.

“Let’s see your form, then.” Talia prompts, setting her up a dozen yards from one of the pillars.

“And you call me incorrigible.” Ivenna teases. Asajj frowns, and Talia whips her head around.

“She’s a _child_ , Ivenna.” Talia protests hotly.

Ivenna rolls her eyes. “She’s not that young and you’re not that much older than her.”

 _Oh_. It clicks, and Asajj watches Talia’s cheeks color beneath her grey tattoos. Talia clears her throat, sets her shoulders, and attends back to the lesson.

The aim of a plasma bow is more precise than Asajj is used to, but it takes awhile for Asajj to adapt, her muscle memory constantly trying to account for environmental factors that she no longer really needs to, throwing off her aim.

Mirjim catches herself on the release several times, the metal fletch piece snapping against her arm, and Talia works with her on her grip and form. Asajj winces sympathetically, recalling the welts she got when she learned archery.

“So, what exactly is a rancor?” Asajj asks, when they’re finally under way, setting off on the trail Master Ky and Master Tholme had taken the day before. They were stuck at camp until the rancor’s nest was cleared, unfortunately for them.

“Think of a barrel of teeth.” Yen comments. “With arms. And legs. And claws. And intelligence.”

“And a whole lot of ugly.” Ivenna adds. Mirjim snorts.

“Intelligence?” Asajj questions, scowling. It certainly sounded monstrous, but… “How intelligent? Is it sentient?”

“No.” Talia replies. “Semi-sentient maybe. They’re smart beasts, but that simply makes them more dangerous. There’s no reasoning with them, if that’s what you’re thinking. I hear Jedi are big on that.” She doesn’t say it snidely, but Asajj still feels that the Nightsisters opinions of Jedi philosophy were…contemptuous at best.

“Trust us, little sister, when we find them…. you’ll understand.” Yen tells her. “These creatures are a menace.”

“Hey, some of them can be trained.” Ivenna points out.

“If you’re insane enough to try.” Yen retorts. “Okili’s monsters don’t even count!” She cuts off Ivenna’s next retort with a sharp hand. “They’ve been domesticated for generations. And her great-grandmother was _most certainly_ insane. That’s a matter of _record_.”

“Don’t let Okili hear you say that.” Talia mutters.

Yen snorts. “She’s half off the boardwalk herself.”

“That’s my point.” Talia replies dryly.

It’s a…strange hunt, all told. Asajj was used to such things being a remarkably quiet affair – with much steeper hiking too. But the Nightsisters continue to banter and rib each other the whole time, and Asajj doesn’t get why until the first rancor barrels out of the mist in a near-silent, menacing charge.

Clearly, they had no need to be concerned about scaring them off.

Ivenna draws her sword, and Mirjim freezes up as Yen and Marrow barely miss being trampled. Talia fires at it’s back, the creature roaring as it slows to turn. The bellow echoes.

And then they can hear answering roars, and the thunder of heavy bodies, charging their way.

“Well,” Yen remarks dryly. “We found them.”

“I think _they_ found _us_.” Asajj points out mutteringly, feeling adrenaline race through her body, all her senses alight. Marrow chuffs in humor, helping Mirjim up a tree at Talia’s silent direction, where the youngest archer will be both safest and the most useful. Asajj, feeling what’s coming to be less of the hunt she expected and more of a battle, trade her bow for her lightsaber.

The rancor snarls nastily, stomping heavy feet, watching them with small, dark beady eyes over a massive maw of teeth and long, heavy, claw-tipped hands. Asajj ignites her saber, feeling her lip curl in response. It’s sharp attention, even malice, focuses on her.

 _Come and test me_. Asajj wills it, eager for a fight she knows she can win. _I’m ready_.

~*~

The urn rests innocently on the floor, and Obi-Wan glowers at it.

He draws back his grasp, just a smidge, and holds his breath.

It collapses back into the shattered pieces it’s been since Old Daka threw it at him. Obi-Wan slumps, reaching up and jerking on his hair. “I just – can’t get it to mend. I don’t get it. I can walk through palaces that exist nowhere but in my own belief, and I can’t fix single stupid piece of pottery!”

And if he couldn’t fix pottery, he certainly couldn’t mend flesh and bone. Not the way the Nightsisters did.

Quinlan tries to be sympathetic, but he’s occupied in working on crafting illusions – and, perhaps more importantly, on learning to _recognize_ illusions. A skill Obi-Wan wouldn’t mind learning himself, given the powerful illusions and mind-snares he’s recently found himself in, but their time was limited, and he was far more interested in healing. In the chance to save lives that he may not be able to through other methods.

So far Quinlan could manage simple visuals – “This bit is just bending light. I can wrap my mind around _that_.” – and Obi-Wan was happy for him, considering Quinlan was still aggravated that he couldn’t manage Shadow-Walking. Even still, there was much more to true illusions than merely what was seen, and Obi-Wan hoped it didn’t prove beyond the other Padawan’s scope.

Quinlans aggravation turned easily to anger, and his anger easily to impulsive cruelty or destructive tendencies. Obi-Wan would rather they avoided that altogether.

He scowls at the broken urn. It _should_ be like the shadows, he thinks, but all his belief that the urn is a single, unified piece does is hold it together in the moment. As soon as he lets go, it shatters again, and he can’t quite figure out why.

“Maybe don’t think of it as healing.” Quinlan suggests absently, glancing over. “You can’t heal pottery.”

“That’s – that’s not actually helpful, Que.” Obi-Wan grumbles, lifting the pieces with the Force, just letting them drift.

Quinlan scowls. “Look, what I’m getting from some of these texts is that magicks is all about give and take. About mutual forces. And not perspective and intent so much as… personal, emotional, spiritual investment.” Which was part of what was stumping the kiffar so much, unfortunately. “So stop thinking of it like Force Healing and start thinking of it in terms of magick.”

“It’s broken and I’m trying to repair it.” Obi-Wan points out.

“And it’s not working, is it? Maybe you can’t repair it…” Quinlan’s brow wrinkles thoughtfully. “Yeah.” He nods.

“Que?”

“You _can’t_ repair it, Obi-Wan.” Quinlan says. “That’s the trick. That too much give and not enough take. That’s how a Jedi does things, not a Witch-“

“We’re _not_ Witches-“

“Destroy it.” Quinlan says over him, a little too gleefully.

“What?”

“You can’t repair the urn.” Quinlan says. “Destroy it, and build a new one. Deconstruction to reconstruction.”

Obi-Wan grimaces and Quinlan laughs. “Yeah, I know. You’re not so great at the destructive part. But nothing is really _destroyed_. It just changes states.”

Which was…well, the Force, in a nutshell.

Obi-Wan chews his lip, fiddling with the pieces for a moment. That was a large part of the Nightsister’s philosophy, wasn’t it? Destruction, even death, wasn’t inherently evil. It was just…part of things.

And that had been in large part the measure of his Test – his ability to accept the necessity of things he by and large considered dark. He’d passed, but….

But so much of his Temple teachings revolved around the idea that destruction was inherently bad. That any facet of it – damage, pain, death - should be avoided if at all possible.

And Mandalorian teachings weren’t as neutral towards darkness as the Nightsisters, but revolved more around damage, pain, and death being an inherent part of life; How one dealt with, overcame, and inflicted such things being titular to the understanding of one’s own self. And there were still parts of Mandalorian philosophy, parts of Mandalorian culture, and the violence inherent in it, that Obi-Wan did shy from, still so very much in conflict with his Jedi upbringing.

“But does that really work with healing a living being?” Obi-Wan complains, still uncertain that that was the right way to go about things. Very certain that breaking the urn _more_ did not feel like progress.

“Your friend is half right.” Old Daka deigns to step in, having left them to their own devices after getting them started with a few demonstrations and philosophies. “But this is not the whole lesson. This is merely the ability to manipulate substance, shape, and form. A small step towards a greater height. True healing has very little to do with flesh and bone and matter.”

Obi-Wan offers her a pinched, hesitant look. “Mother Talzin said something to that effect as well. That it was all about energy. That energy is the only thing that really _is_.”

Which is not an entirely comforting thought. The only lessons Obi-Wan has really had in the manipulation of energy was an attempt at deflecting blaster bolts with the Force. And it was still a lesson in progress. And that was energy that actually existed as energy, and not physical objects, or intangible concepts such as spiritual energy, which wasn’t energy in the same way that heat or light was energy at all -

“Which is well beyond you if you cannot even manage clay.” The old witch informs him dryly, and Obi-Wan can feels his ears heat.

“Yes, ma’am.” He mutters, turning back to his task.


	46. Chapter 46

“No.” Ben corrects bluntly, and Master Narec grimaces, hand drifting left, grey eyes peeking over at what Ben was doing on the controls before he finds the correct match on his side of the cockpit, sighing.

“I wasn’t the best pilot _before_ spending a decade on that rathole.” Narec mutters, and Ben chuckles.

Padawan Ventress had returned flush with victory from the hunt (and perhaps a little gory, most unfortunately) and Quinlan had aided his Master in retracing the path to the ship the day after, allowing them to move it closer to their current lodging and look it over for any adverse conditions as result of the environment. That had taken _another_ day, with Obi-Wan fussing over it, but they hadn’t minded terribly. There was plenty else to keep them occupied in the meantime.

“Were you a better pilot, I imagine you wouldn’t have been shot down.” Ben smirks, teasing amicably.

“Hey, between the Raiders and the Warlords, anyone who wasn’t someone they knew got shot down. Only people who get on and off Rattatak were mercenaries and smugglers on the employ.” Narec grumbles in his own defense.

“You never managed to steal a ship?”

“Oh, I managed.” Narec says, drier than dust. “That’s how I found out that no Siniteen ship can break atmo without an authorized code command. I did _not_ have said code command. The whole damn ship just shut down.”

“You crashed?” Ben winces sympathetically.

“I got lucky. Hit a glacier cap belly down and _skipped_.” Narec tells him. “When it finally stopped, I barely managed to drag myself out of the wreckage before they turned it into a smoking crater. _More_ of a smoking crater.” He amends.

“They really did _not_ like you.”

“They really didn’t.”

“Good job.” Ben smirks.

“Heh. Right?” Narec grins, shaking his head. Sometimes it was good to know you were pissing off the right people. It meant you were making a difference.

“It doesn’t help that this one’s got the fanciest ship in the Order.” Tholme remarks, observing from the doorway. “And that all the displays are in a language no one else can read.” He adds pointedly.

“Shmi left labels.” Ben mutters, well aware that half of them were gone now. Tholme lifts an unimpressed brow when Ben looks over his shoulder, and Narec huffs.

“How did you get this ship, anyhow?” Narec inquires. “It looks…expensive.”

“Oh, it was a gift to my padawan from the _Mand’alor_.”

Narec pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Alright, I accept that you’ve been adopted, but surely it is one thing to earn Mandalorian battle honor, and another to earn a personal gift from the Mandalorian king on top of it. What did he _do_ to earn that? Last I heard of Mereel, he’d sooner spit than do the Jedi any favors.”

“Mereel is dead. His son, Jango Fett, holds the title now.” Ben corrects gently, realizing that perhaps they hadn’t quite explained that when telling their own story, and that Narec lost contact with the greater galaxy around the same time as Mereel died. “And as to what Obi-Wan did – well, he helped him steal it.” Which was a gross simplification of facts, but Ben and Obi-Wan’s relationship with Mandalore was…extensively complicated. And in slight

“Helped him-“ Narec gapes a little, eyes narrowing, and Tholme clears his throat, gesturing out the viewscreen.

“Looks like we’re coming up.” The old watchman observes, frowning. “That’s… “

Ben knows what he means. Compared to the Nightsisters Citadel, the meager village nestled in the mountains was quite sorry in comparison. Pourstone and wooden constructs were layered over the crumbling ruins of an older civilization, outdated generators providing limited power, likely not more than lighting and heat, given the wisps of steam rising from vent-pipes.

The Nightsisters used very limited technology as it suited them, content with a more traditional lifestyle, but what little they did use was leagues beyond what the Nightbrothers had, which was downright almost primitive.

Narec takes his hands completely away from the controls as they descend, not risking making a wrong move during landing, and Ben brings the ship down on a level ridge just outside the village.

“You know, I’ve never been on Search before.” Narec comments, eyeing the curious figures starting to lean from balconies and step out into the street through the viewport. “Have you?”

“Never intentionally.” Tholme replies.

“Once.” Ben demurs, thinking fondly of Beru Kara and Mog. Beru was just about due to leave the nursery and join a clan, and while Mog was certainly well able to, his prolonged adolescence made progression through the creche a bit more tricky.

Narec pulls a face. “I feel we are less well equipped than we should be.” He mutters.

“Trust the Force, Master Narec.” Ben claps him on the shoulder, the engines winding down. “You’re better equipped than most ever are.”

The other master grumbles, and follows Ben out of the cockpit, heaving himself out of his chair with a quiet grunt of complaint.

A tall, lean warrior is waiting for them between the vessel and the village, a mirage of Mother Talzin fading away from beside him as they approach.

Ben has a momentary pause to consider just how _out of body_ his prior out-of-body experience might have been. Astral projection was a topic of some debate in the Temple, ultimately considered by the Order to be too frivolous a use of energy and too dangerous a practice for the reward to outweigh the risks, particularly following the invention of the long-range holocomm.

 _Perhaps we touch more of what they call magick than we know_ , he muses. He’s not oblivious to the fact that modern teachings were simply less exploratory in regards to the Force than those of say, a thousand years ago, before the Russan Reformation. They had been winnowed down by what seemed to be necessity, a Jedi’s efforts too in demand for their own curiosities to be the forefront of their training when the galaxy _needed_ them to be running assignments and missions.

And still there had always been much of the Force, after all, that even the sagest scholars admitted they could not understand.

 _And I am not one of the sagest scholars_ , Ben thinks. More openminded then some, given his experiences, but not nearly as well versed in old studies, no matter his interest.

“You are…the Harbinger?” The Nightbrother gestures to Ben, and Ben bites his cheek at Mother Talzin’s infernal moniker. Tholme offers him a lifted brow and Narec just frowns sternly.

“So it appears.” Ben replies easily, presenting himself with the serenity due a Jedi Master. “Jedi Master Ben Naasade. Master Tholme. Master Ky Narec.”

“I am Viscus, Chief among Brothers.” The warrior nods, and Ben does recognize him, though he’ll appear a much wearier figure twenty years from now.

Tholme and Narec both share glance, taking in the imposing sight of the Zabrak’s heavy tattoos, powerful height, and the very wicked spear strapped to his back. They take in the village with similar apprehension – all the warriors much the same. Some taller, many broader, some with far more impressive horns, all of them having spent a lifetime training to be the best and most impressive warrior they could be, all the better to defend the clans and potentially earn a Nightsister’s favor.

Slightly less intimidating figures peek through the edges of windows, horns far less imposing, eyes much wider.

“They are here for a Choosing.” Viscus calls out, eyes pinched with his own unsettled confusion at the prospect. “They are to train Nightbrothers in their warrior ways, and to teach them… Jedi Magicks.”

Tholme grumbles at that term, and Narec winces faintly.

“Why?” A younger Nightbrother calls out, arms crossed over a broad chest.

Viscus sighs almost imperceptibly before he speaks. “For the prosperity of the Clan.” He replies firmly. “Mother Talzin has made her will clear.”

Some of the warriors shift, glancing at each other, one or two shuffling from foot to foot. “Do we fight for it?” Someone asks, sounding skeptical.

Another almost imperceptible sigh, and Viscus merely gestures to the Jedi.

“That won’t be necessary.” Master Tholme replies gruffly, shooting Ben a glare as if this affair is _his_ fau – ah, well, yes. Right.

“Then what do we do?”

Brother Viscus claps, and the warriors jolt, not startled - but in learned response, and the milling takes the form of a more formal line-up in short order, the Nightbrothers standing at rigid attention.

Or, well, a form of it.

Cody and Rex would cry at their discipline, and then start _correcting_.

A chill wind sweeps through the village, the air crisp and far drier than the rich swamplands the Nightsister’s inhabited, and at least one Nightbrother shivers. Their clothes are mostly linen and animal hide, undyed and hand-made and self-patched. Dull and basic compared to the Nightsisters elaborate weaves and rich colors, though Ben does spot small carved adornments, and more than a few elaborate necklaces made of bone and ivory and polished quartz.

Zabrak are a stocky species. Some of them, Ben notes critically, are lean. And some of that leanness is more of the kind of scarce rations than natural inclination. He eyes the rocky peaks around them, and wonders how much they can even grow up here, and how much there is to hunt. Dathomir was bountiful, but also unforgiving. Gentle planets made gentler people. Dathomir was _not_ a gentle planet.

Viscus whistles, and there is a second stampede of feet. Teenlings and boys trample into the square, some of the teenagers with much younger boys under an arm or slung over a shoulder. They do shiver in the chill - though their clothes look more carefully made, and trimmed up in fur - and giggle, and shuffle nervously as they line up. Some of the men mutter, at least one crossing their arms in disapproval at the inclusion of the boys.

Viscus turns to the Jedi expectantly, and both Narec and Tholme look to Ben.

 _Once_. He’s only ever been on Search _once_.

Sniffing disagreeably at the both of them, Ben walks forward, taking a deep breath. The Jedi had already agreed on taking in perhaps as many as five, if they were willing, and it wasn’t as if the pickings were slim – every Nightbrother and Nightsister was Force Sensitive.

The Dathomiri were an interesting quirk of genetic fallout, some hybrid cross of Human, Rattattaki, and Iridonian Zabrak. The females of the species all had chalk-pale skin, and more often than not developed hair growth during adolescence. The males, conversely, were uniformly bald, horned, and their skin tended towards almost hyperpigmentation; yellow, red, and orange hues far richer than traditional Iridonian bloodlines. Yet that dimorphism was not present in any one of the three species from which they developed.

“Does anyone…have an interest in learning our ways?” Ben inquires, a familiar bad taste in his mouth at just…taking someone in service because they were handed to him. Ben could have refused altogether, but in the Force he had felt opportunity here. He doesn’t quite know the proper shape of it, but he’s willing to wait and see what unfolds. Besides, a Jedi’s life may prove more prosperous than their current circumstances.

Some of the men shuffle and glance at each other, and the boys just look confused.

Ben sighs.

“Perhaps a demonstration?” Master Narec suggests, and even Viscus looks intrigued at that, nodding.

Ben smiles. “By all means.” Ben encourages his companions. Tholme snorts, and Narec realizes quickly he stepped right in to that one. “They’ll need some space.” Ben adds, looking to the Chief among Brothers.

“Clear it!” Viscus barks, and just as quickly as they formed up, the Nightbrothers all draw to the sides, some of them collecting younger boys as they went, huddling together on stoops and against walls, intrigued. Viscus ends up with a boy of perhaps ten clinging to his back and another of about three – the youngest in the village – in his arms.

Tholme and Narec move to the middle, and eye each other up and down.

“Jar Kai Shii-Cho.” Tholme remarks, grimacing faintly.

“Yes.” Narec confirms, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. “You?”

“Let’s stick with Shii-Cho.” Tholme says simply, and Ben eyes him curiously. Tholme’s lightsaber prowess, even during the Clone Wars, had been a bit of a mystery, as he preferred to solve his problems and get himself out of sticky situations through cunning rather than through use of his saber.

Yet he had faced Count Dooku at least once and come out the other side whole. Ben would not discount his abilities. Given his outside training, Ben would be surprised if Tholme preferred a Temple Standard form at all.

The lightsabers entrance the Nightbrothers, for a moment, but then two green blades are crashing against one blue, and it’s the whirl of the fight that has their attention. Tholme is more apt to utilize tricks in the Force to gain leverage, Narec resorting to acrobatics when pressed, and Ben has to chide them both to slow down more than once, as they blurred with enhanced speed.

Still, it’s only a friendly spar, and over quickly. The two opponents bow to each other, and rejoin Ben.

“What about Magicks?”

“We call Magick the Force.” Ben says, trying to spot which youngling had asked the question, but all in a huddle, the tattoos seemed to blend together, making one Nightbrother harder to distinguish from those around him. Visually, at least.

“A demonstration?” Brother Viscus prompts.

“Your turn.” Tholme mutters.

Ben sighs, nodding, and looks around, trying to discern how best to make an impression.

He eyes the roof across the street from him, nods to himself, and starts walking.

A few of the boys giggle, as he takes those first few steps up, and a few pull away from the walls to watch him simply…stride on air, taking a staircase none of them can see until he can turn and settle himself on the edge of the roof. Reaching out, he focuses on the barrels lining the street, used to burn fires on colder days, and lifts the four of them that are below, moving them in a pattern before setting them down again. Then he hops off the roof, and lets himself land lightly.

“There are far less visible uses of the Force, of course, but those are more difficult to demonstrate.” Ben acknowledges fairly.

“I wanna learn!”

“ _Hush_ , Feral.”

Ben turns and finds a familiar face he had not given enough thought to anticipate.

Savage Opress. The teenager was sitting on the edge of a wooden stoop, a younger boy tucked against his side, the teenager’s arm roped around his shoulder. Definitely brothers; both of them grey-green eyed and yellow skinned, though Savage’s tattoos were true black, and… _Feral’s_ seemed lighter – a very dark brown, instead.

 _There were_ three _of them_ , Ben thinks, and feels his stomach clench at the thought.

The teenager scowls suspiciously at Ben, and the boy bites his lower lip, staring wide-eyed at the Jedi.

 _Well_ , _fuck_. Ben thinks. _I can’t leave without them_.


	47. Chapter 47

“Padawans – _Asajj Ventress, what is that_?” Master Narec calls a greeting, coming ahead of the others disembarking the ship, and stops abruptly at the sight of his padawan dual wielding her sabers.

Both of her sabers.

One of which was last known to be at the bottom of the Temple falls with the Sleeper.

Both of which should have been bright amber. And one was. And the other was an eerie, misty white-cored green, a ghostly fire seeming to flicker around the blade and seep from the hilt.

“Mother Talzin got it back for me.” Padawan – _I have never heard my last name so often in my life, Master Ky only says it when I’m in trouble, please stop_ – Ventress says defensively.

“Is it… safe?” He asks, grey eyes pinched and frowning skeptically. “It looks…”

His padawan shrugs, twirling the blade with familiarity. “Mother Talzin imbued it with Nightsister magick.” She reports, peering at her own weapon for a moment.

The man looks horribly out of depth, and Master Ben consolingly squeezes his shoulder on his way by. “Padawans, we have new students.” Master Ben says jovially.

“How many?” Quinlan asks. They’d been briefed already on the plan, and the kiffar padawans largest compliant had been the possibility of travelling with young children. He liked kids, but, well, he liked them best when he could give them back to someone else. Not when he was stuck in a flying can with them.

“Six.”

“You said no more than five.” Asajj points out.

“Yes, well….” Master Ben remarks tightly, and then just stops there. Their guests trickle down the path, led by one hulking figure of a zabrak with deep brown skin and dark ashen-blue tattoos, which made his pale green eyes all the more intense.

Until the man spots Asajj and freezes up, before trying to both look down respectfully and puff up his chest at the same time, muscles flexing.

Asajj looks mortified, and just…abruptly turns around, fiddling with her sabers so she doesn’t have to acknowledge what just happened, her face violet with a disgruntled blush. Quinlan snickers, and Master Ben sighs.

Master Narec clears his throat, addressing Obi-Wan and Quinlan. “Padawans, this is Howl,”

Behind Howl was a boy about Anakin’s age, a teenagers hands on his shoulder, guiding, both of them yellow-skinned with darker tattoos; “Feral, Savage,” then came an orange-skinned tweenling with brown tattoos; “Ravage,” a maroon-skinned young man with more swirly markings; “Talon,” and last came a slighter figure with only half a crown of horns, pearl grey skin giving way to bright red from one side to the other, one eye a liquid silver, the other a pale brown. Their tattoos were white. “ and Wraith.”

“Howl, Feral, Savage, Ravage, Talon, Wraith.” Quinlan repeats below his breath. “Sensing a theme?” He nudges Obi-Wan, who shoots him a look.

“Cultural practices, Que.” Obi-Wan chides. “Be nice.”

“Can’t I leave that to you?” Quinlan teases.

Master Narec clears his throat pointedly, and Obi-Wan elbows Quinlan, bowing. Asajj reluctantly turns around, eyes narrowed, and does the same.

“Eh…Nightbrothers, meet Padawans Asajj Ventress, Quinlan Vos, and Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Hullo.” The youngest – Feral – chirps.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Feral.” Savage checks him, tense and radiating nervousness.

Obi-Wan keeps himself relaxed, projecting _warm-safe-friendly_ as best he can. All of the Nightbrothers are nervous, each in their own way, and uncertain. They’re in the midst of a massive change in their lives, and Obi-Wan doesn’t want to spook anyone who looks as familiar with the weapons they’re wearing as this little group does. “I like meeting new people.” He says simply.

“I don’t ever meet new people.” Feral says skeptically.

“That’ll change.” Quinlan quips.

Feral’s brother doesn’t look terribly thrilled at that prospect, and Obi-Wan feels for him.

~*~

“I have taught dozens of sisters to swim.” Vanya says seriously, arms crossed. “I won’t let you drown.”

Asajj hugs her arms, knee deep in the wide stone pond, a few other Nightsisters of various ages in company, and scowls, trying to keep trepidation off her face. The air is steamy humid, the plant around them lush and pretty, an array of purples and blues, and the warm glow of tree pods above them. The pool is never deeper than Asajj’s shoulders, but still – she remembers too clearly the water above her head, the crushing weight, fire in her chest, liquid crawling up her sinuses, down her throat-

“Hey.” Vanya wades towards her, sloshing water. One of the _dakunn_ pets slips off the edge of the pond and plops, fur expanding ridiculously as it bobs, paddling. “The first lesson is easy, and we won’t go any deeper than you are right now. I’m just going to show you how to float, okay?”

Asajj swallows and nods. One of the mothers bounces a toddler in the water, and the baby burbles with glee. It makes her feel a bit easier about this. She feels foolish, admittedly, being so scared of a _pond_ , but…

But it doesn’t stop her being scared.

Rattattak wasn’t exactly wealthy with places to swim. The only good lakes were all Warlord territory, the river canyons too deep and dangerous, and the rest was mostly snow-cap run off. It was _cold_ , and she hadn’t needed to know how to swim to cross the rocky streams, so she’d never really desired to learn.

She regretted that.

And since Master Ky was busy helping Master Tholme give the Nightbrother stu- _Disciples_ a basic course in elementary meditations, saber forms, and basic Jedi philosophy (namely that no, it was not acceptable to solve your arguments by brawling, we have to try something else first) and the other padawans were learning Magick – or, well, _trying to_ , she guessed, given how surly they were getting about it – she thought it would be a good time for her to learn. She can feel their time on Dathomir slipping away, a restlessness stirring in all of them, glances at the sky turning into more lingering looks, as if being drawn.

Master Ky had told her once that Jedi without a cause don’t settle well.

She starting to understand what he means. In still moments, when she’s quiet on the inside, she can feel it – that urge to go, to seek. She can feel the stars pulling at her, and sometimes, sometimes she can almost hear it too – whispers of voices she doesn’t recognize yet. People who need her, or someone like her. A Jedi.

So she’ll spend time with her people while she can.

And then she’ll go.

 _I should…probably tell Master Ky I’ve decided_. She thinks, feeling a bit guilty that he’s been so patient and reassuring with her in spite the fact that she can sense he’s been…distressed, about the possibility of saying goodbye.

“So first thing; you can go ahead and get down. We’ll start just having you sit and lean back, so you can get a feel for buoyancy.” Vanya says.

Wait. “What?” Asajj blinks out of her thoughts, staring at the Nightsister.

One of the girls snickers, and Vanya grumbles.

~*~

Asajj skirts past where Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi – _you could call me Obi-Wan, you know_ – are trying to impress upon the Nightbrothers the scope, purpose, and function of the Galactic Republic, and how that relates to the Jedi Order in search of her master.

The Nightbrother are all very… _awkward_ , around her, and she’d rather not deal with it at this particular moment.

She finds Master Ky in easy conversation with Master Tholme, the two of them working on peeling some kind of tough-skinned vegetable the Nightbrothers had helped them find to add to supper. She almost doesn’t want to interrupt – she’s never thought of her master as lonely before (He’s always had _her_ , after all) but she’s never really seen him with someone who could be a friend, either. But he and Master Tholme seemed to fall in well together, and Asajj liked the idea of her master having someone to talk who actually understood for themselves the things he had to say. Everything Asajj knew, she had to learn from him. It didn’t make her advice nor her perspective the most helpful when he was conflicted about something.

“Little one?” He looks up, brow a firm line, but the twist of his mouth softening.

Asajj takes a breath, trying to keep her nerves off her face – and she knows it makes her scowl, that effort, but it’s all she’s got – and she shouldn’t feel so nervous, really. But her stomach still clenches and she can’t help but want to fidget.

Tholme glances between them and then scans the area. “I ought to go find my padawan.” He mutters, setting aside the borrowed knife and the vegetable he was peeling to rise a little stiffly and walk off. Asajj blinks at his retreat, but appreciates being able to claim his seat by her master.

“It’s not bad news.” Asajj starts off with weakly, looking over at her master. “I… I’ve decided I – I’d rather follow your path, than my mothers.”

She’d had an upsetting encounter with Mirris yesterday, her mothers…friend, if she could be called that, making it clear that she was scathingly disappointed in Asajj’s – in what she called Asajj’s betrayal. The other Nightsisters made a point of shunning Asassi’s supporters, who had turned their bitterness to near viciousness over Asassi’s current imprisonment, and they had rallied to come between Asajj and Mirris, but it had still left a sickly feeling in her stomach.

And yet it had only hardened her resolve.

Her mother’s way was _wrong_.

“Asajj.” Her master sighs. “That’s – don’t scowl at me – that’s not what I want, little one. That isn’t the choice before you – I want you to follow your _own_ path, whether that is here, or elsewhere.”

“Well, it’s not here.” Asajj says bluntly, a little sour because she _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to help but push back a little. “I couldn’t just…stay, master. I _want_ to be a Jedi.” _Like you_.

He studies her face, and Asajj stares back into his grey eyes resolutely, determined. “Are you truly sure? I understand, given what’s happened if you were…disappointed…but are you certain you just want to walk away from your people? They would care for you well, you know. Teach you what I can’t. Be for you what I can’t. Things will be different at the Temple, Asajj. It won’t be like it was on Rattattak. Expectations will be different.”

“I know.” Asajj replies, looking down at her hands. Vanya had been kind, in her own impatient, hot-tempered way, teaching her to swim, Talia had offered her a mutual respect, Yen and Ivenna both playful; teasing and joking and trying to get Asajj to laugh or sputter during the hunt, Majj had woven her a small dreamcatcher, the day after Asajj had visited the weavers… Asajj could be content here. Welcomed and loved and cared for. She knows this.

She knows she’ll miss her people sometimes, miss what they offered her, if she leaves. But Dathomir won’t go anywhere. She can walk away knowing she can always go back.

 _You will always be a daughter of Dathomir_. Mother Talzin had told her, and Asajj thinks – perhaps Mother Talzin knew, before Asajj did. Because she had tried, really, to sink in roots, to fall in love with her people, with their culture, to fill herself with it, to _need_ it, more than anything else.

But she’d regret forever leaving Master Ky.

Her heart told her could be a Jedi and a Witch. But _not_ a Witch and a Jedi. Asajj has spent a decade staring up, waiting for her chance to see the stars and walk under different skies and do _good_ in the galaxy. Do things that _mattered_.

Be someone that mattered.

And maybe it was selfish and childish, but she could not – _would not_ – give that up.

Or him.

They were _family_ , he and her.

“But this isn’t where I’m meant to be.” Asajj says seriously, looking back to him. “I can _feel_ it, Master. I’d never settle. A part of me would always be…restless. And you know how I get when I’m restless.” She adds, flashing a grin, and there’s the smile she wanted, a chuffed out thing he tries to press down.

“Alright. Alright. I trust you to know your own mind.” He nods, resting a hand on her shoulder and casting her in waves of _pride-relief_. Asajj rests her hand over his, squeezing his fingers.

“Do you at least… would you like to see your mother again, before we leave? To say goodbye?” He inquires, awkwardly, but with the solemnity of one who believes the question _must_ be asked. Sometimes, she thinks, he tries to give up too much for her sake, as if to prove to himself that he can, as if some of the things he gives don’t hurt him, when she knows they do.

Asajj’s eyes sting just to even think too much about her mother, and her shoulders hunch, her hand dropping so she can wrap her arms around her stomach. She looks away from her master and shakes her head.

She still doesn’t understand how her mother could _do_ that to her, and then be angry – _angry_ – when the others came to her rescue.

 _She would have killed me._ Asajj thinks, angry and afraid. _Master Ky saved my life_.

Asassi Ventress was not the mother her daughter wanted her to have been, and Asajj Ventress was not the kind of daughter who her mother wished she would be. It seems they were both disappointed.

Asajj takes a deep breath and lets out a shuddery sigh. She blinks until the water on her lashes trickles weakly, and the sting in her eyes fades, that upsetting sense of being small and helpless waning into something like relief as she finds some place inside of herself where she can accept that fact that they weren’t what each other wanted. Weren’t what they _needed_ each other to be.

No, she would not go to see Asassi again. She did not need to say goodbye. The only thing seeing her mother once more could do was hurt.

 _I’m not being taken this time_ , Asajj thinks. _This time, I’m walking away_.

Asajj breaths in deep again, the rich, moist air filling her lungs, the comforting power whispering all around her, welcoming and warm, and looks up, at the mulled red sky, clear for once and littered with bright white sparks of stars.

 _Dathomir is in my blood_ , she thinks, reaching out to bask in the world while she has the chance. _But it’s not all that I am_.

 _I’m more than this. I’m going to find out how much more_.

“Asajj?”

“I’m alright.” She turns, to find him watching her with that look of aloof consideration that generally meant he was out of his depth and possibly panicking on the inside. Honestly, he acted like raising her was the challenge of a lifetime. “We’re alright, Master.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Asajj nods.

“If you change your-“

“ _Master_.”

 _Honestly_.


	48. Chapter 48

“I understand a send-off, but do they understand she’s an adolescent?” Ben inquires, doing his best to make his presence all but nonexistent, having come to collect Padawan Ventress after delivering her to the Nightsisters for one last day. They’ve allowed themselves nearly a month on Dathomir, but Ben has the feeling that if he doesn’t report in soon, Knight Gallia will issue a recovery notice on their team.

Either that or ban him from coming back for causing her so much trouble.

The square outside the Temple was full of Nightsisters in good humor, illusions turning the air above them alive with color, music and food aplenty, and some game going on in the center involving a lot of what looked like double ended spoons, and three small balls of different colors. The objective appeared to be keeping all three balls in the air, though there were some rules regarding what was allowed based on the color of the ball that he didn’t quite grasp yet. Every time a player ‘lost’ they where handed a jug that had been passed around quite a few times now, getting increasingly flushed and giddy, and thus increasingly worse at playing the game.

“It won’t kill her.” Mother Talzin replies, observing her clan with a settled sense of accomplishment and revelry that surprises him, but perhaps should not.

She loves her people.

“I’m sure that’s not what she’ll say come the morning.” Ben says amusedly, still reluctant to draw the girl away when she seemed to be having such fun. She was different this way, so much more alight, so much freer with herself, than the woman he remembers, though so much of her mannerisms and reactions remains the same.

“Then she can consider it another lesson learned here.”

Ben snorts, and Mother Talzin smiles wryly.

Then something flickers over her face. She turns a hand, and holds out a book – a real book – to him. Ben lifts a brow.

“Another gift?” Ben remarks, reaching out to take it, wondering how the Nightsisters kept books so well in such a miserably damp environment, but then, the answer was probably literally magick. Asajj had been given many tokens and learning tools to take with her, today and the last few days, and her master was beginning to get the pinched look of someone incapable of saying no and utterly aware that he’s not sure where they’ll put all these things. Jedi were generally fairly light on personal possessions. To be fair, Obi-Wan and Quinlan had also been permitted to copy certain learning materials to take with them, and they had not done so with any sort of restraint.

“This is not a book for a child, and she is a child yet.” Mother Talzin says strictly, moonlight gaze firm and fixed on his.

The cover is grooved, the details uncertain in the flickering light, and it weighs more in his hand than he believes it ought for its shape and size. “What is it?” He inquires.

Mother Talzin smiles thinly. “That book has been kept by this Temple since the rise of the Night Witch herself. As to it’s contents…” She sighs. “It has given some witches great power, driven others mad, and simply…broken, more than a few. In more than six hundred years it has only revealed a fraction of its contents.” Mother Talzin tells him, a wistful sort of regret in her tone. “And last night it called to me for the first time.”

Ben lifts his brows, his interest obvious, but his inquiries held back out of respect. The edges of her mouth quirk, amused at his restraint, and she deigns to answer him perhaps only because he did retrain himself, as was the way the two of them had come to play their little game of give and take.

“All I have for you is a warning, Harbinger; what must be taught is of more consequence than our desires to learn.” She informs him, moonlight eyes alight with secrets, staring into him with something akin to apprehension. “And we are not always the learner, but the lesson itself.”

Ben feels a chill run down his spine. The wisdom sounds like a temple teaching, but from her lips it falls like prophecy, like she has seen something unspeakable, and his is the path right towards it. Ben wishes he could demands answers, demand _details_ , at least, but he knows too well the trap of _knowing_. Sometimes saying a thing _did_ make it so.

He has the feeling that they would _both_ like to avoid what she has been shown.

“That-“ Her gaze flickers down to the book. “- is not a gift. But it demands to go with you.”

Ben takes a breath, clears his throat, and mutters; “Delightful.”

Her brow quirks, and she dismisses him with a small shake of her head.

Ben tucks the small novel into his belt, the object itself seemingly utterly innocuous, and makes his way to get Padawan Ventress’s attention before too much drink makes her sick. He’d rather not have to _carry_ her back to her master.

~*~

“Oh, there you a- what are you doing?” Obi-Wan asks, ducking into the storage compartment as Quinlan slams the lid down on a supply crate.

“What? What do you want?” Quinlan turns and leans against the crate. Obi-Wan crosses his arms and lifts a brow, looking so much like his master that it’s creepy.

They can both hear the faint scrabbling of claws on plasteen, and Quinlan scowls. “Ignore that.”

“Quinlan, that crate is airtight.” Obi-Wan points out, lips twitching as he steps inside the storage compartment, which holds just about enough space for the two of them to circle around the crate he’s pulled out of its place on the shelving. “Neither of us is ignoring that.”

“Kriff.” Quinlan mutters, whipping back around and unlatching the lid while Obi-Wan mosies up to his side, curiously intrigued. With twelve people on board the _Lighthawk_ , which has an occupancy threshold of about sixteen persons, it was getting a bit crowded, so Quinlan isn’t honestly surprised that he got caught out. Someone was bound to have stumbled over him eventually.

Quinlan pops off the lid and immediately has to shove down one over-rambunctious, nipping snout. “You stay in there.” He commands.

Eight pairs of reflective, dark-rimmed eyes stare up at them from fluffy, pointed little faces, the balls of fur broken up only by nibbly little clawed paws and stubby little horns.

“Oh, Quinlan, you didn’t.” Obi-Wan sighs, already falling into adoration as he sinks to his knees, reaching in – and immediately getting bit. “ _Osik_!” He swears.

“One; I did.” Quinlan snorts. “Two; they aren’t hand-tame yet. Three; they’re not for you. This is a creche gift.”

Quinlan had eventually wheedled out of Merrin where he had to go to get one – which turned out to be a _who_ he had to go to – and then there had been a scathing lecture on the fact that you couldn’t just take _one_ , they were colony creatures, they needed company – and then there had been actually going about bartering to acquire them, and –

Anyways. Two litters of _dakunn_ kits. In a crate. On Obi-Wan’s ship.

“Right.” Obi-Wan glances up at him, smirking a little. “So which one’s Aayla’s?”

“The one with the yellow striping, obviously.” Quinlan mutters, feeling stupidly pleased. Obi-Wan putters out a breath, glancing back and forth between Quinlan and his fluffy, nippy contraband.

“Alright. Obviously I’m not going to rat on you.” Obi-Wan huffs, pushing himself up. “But we’re going to have to cover this with something else or they’ll suffocate. And what about feeding them? We’ve got at least three days back to Coruscant.”

“The Nightsisters feed them bones, fruit rinds and vegetable scraps. A Temple exozoologist might be able to map a diet, but honestly I think they eat just about anything. Okili said if they can’t digest it, they just hark it back up.”

Obi-Wan pulls a face. “Lovely.”

Quinlan shrugs. “Why were you looking for me?” Quinlan inquires.

“Hm?” Obi-Wan glances at him, mind clearly engaged with the dilemma of the crate.

Quinlan gives him a sharp mental prod, and Obi-Wan focuses.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d meditate with me once we’re in hyperspace.” Obi-Wan suggests. Quinlan grumbles at the suggestion, but he gets the other padawans point – they haven’t really mediated on the pair bond since the Nightsisters…did whatever it was they did to him. Quinlan’s head feels a lot clearer, but he knows his temperament is easily tipped, and his impulse control is…not good, to say nothing of his _emotional_ control. He can channel it, fairly well, the direction his thoughts and impulses take, at least, but that’s more…damage mitigation than actual control. And afterwards…afterwards he’s just _exhausted_.

His mind is different, his _mindset_ is different, than it was when they built the bond, and the difference has weakened their connection.

 _I shouldn’t have to rely on anyone else_ wars inside his brain with _I need him_ and the whisper of doubt that there is something inherently problematic with both of those lines of thought.

“Que?” Obi-Wan prompts.

“If you want.” Quinlan shrugs, and is rewarded with a beaming smile so charming it’s almost flirtatious.

Quinlan grins back in response, the upsurge of _warm-happy-successful_ infectious and sparkling.

 _That smile is gonna kill people some day_ , Quinlan thinks, both jealous and delighted, before stamping down on his hormones sharply. _Don’t even go there, Quinlan_. He scolds himself.

“More than anything I could ever dream of.” Obi-Wan replies cheekily, and Quinlan rolls his eyes. “But really, Quinlan, first we need a tarp or something.”

 _What_?

He blanks for a moment, confused.

 _Scratch-scratch-screet-screet-scrabblescrabblescrabble_.

Little claws on plasteen.

Right.

“Spare bedding and tensions cables?” Quinlan suggests.

Obi-Wan ponders it for a moment, and then shrugs. “Might as well _try_.”

~*~

Ben spends most of the trip – that is, the most of it which he is not spending sorting out the conflicts bound to arise when you have two preteens and five teenagers trapped together in limited space – contemplating his padawan.

Obi-Wan catches one of his long, thoughtful looks more than once, ears turning red with faint embarrassment under such scrutiny before eventually lifting a questioning brow or offering a narrow eyed look of intent, like he was trying to puzzle out his master in turn.

He’ll always look younger than he is, Ben admits ruefully, but at sixteen there is a proud discipline to the way he carries himself, and sure strength in his lean-to-stocky still growing (Still? _honestly_ ) limbs. His red hair is starting to lighten, more golden hues threading in amongst the auburn, but he’s still paler than Ben, whose face seems permanently marked by the smudges of freckles left by harsh exposure to Tatooine’s suns, a touch of color sunk forever into his skin. But his pale face still had the lightest marr of a silvery scar, creating faint creases when he smiled, shining when the light hit him just so.

And there is a gravity to Obi-Wan’s focus, to his gaze and his voice that makes him stand apart. This was true of many Jedi – just, generally they stood out amongst those less Force Sensitive. Obi-Wan stands out even among his peers, impossible to ignore.

Stars above, he was a Senior Padawan already. He was far from the only sixteen year old Senior Padawan, but he was the only one who’s gotten there in just three years. He’d been apprenticed late, after all.

 _“I’m growing up, in case you hadn’t noticed_.”

Ben had, he just….

 _I’ve been trying to protect him_ , Ben thinks. _Have I protected him too much_?

Ben has tried to spare him from heartbreak, from the suffering and the scars that he himself carried, but in doing so fears he may have been denying Obi-Wan the challenges – real challenges – that would define him.

_“Just…work with me. I don’t just want to be your student.”_

Ben had wanted - still wants - to prevent his padawan from suffering loss, from losing some of the innocence that makes life so much _simpler_.

But not just for Obi-Wan’s own sake….but for Ben’s selfishness as well. In a way, Obi-Wan’s innocence still felt like his own, as if by saving Obi-Wan, Ben could save himself.

But there’s an ache in his chest that tells him he’s come too far – that _they_ have come too far now. If he keeps holding on so tightly, all he’ll do is deny his padawan the chance to grow.

 _“I want to be able to be your partner too.”_ He’d looked so certain, so determined, both wishing and demanding, unwilling to back down. _“I want to be the Jedi you see in me. I think I can be, if you help me. If you work with me_.”

Obi-Wan may not realize how often his master struggled to see the Jedi he could be, for the shadow cast by the Jedi that Ben _is_. But Ben _could_ see it, in that moment, not just the better Jedi, but the better man he’d be.

And what should have felt like victory – did, _did_ feel like victory, _was_ victory - also felt like dread.

Like another loss in Ben’s life, another unfair betrayal of fate.

Because for the first time, he’d truly seen the man _he_ could have been, and isn’t.

 _Ben Naasade_. He takes in a deep breath, taking _that_ tone with himself in scolding. _Quit wallowing_.

He lets it out.

 _I need a drink_.

Correction, he _wants_ a drink, and that’s a terrible idea and a worse habit.

 _I need a friend_.

He wants Anakin, who’d be entirely out of his depth but do his supportive best nonetheless, and suggest awful ideas that Ben would have to counter in self defense until everything just…seemed alright again.

He’d like to comm Jango, but even if the Mand’alor could spare him the time, Ben doesn’t think the _Lighthawks_ communications system would stretch that far. Though that would be something Ben might be capable of tweaking, some afternoon when he needed to do something with his hands. Mechanical engineering was hardly his province, but with a Skywalker for a padawan…

Maybe he’d ask Shmi to take a look at it. Offer her some suggestions, maybe a few of the schematics he remembers. Let her take it and take off with it.

Besides, some of the things he wants to say to Jango he’d rather say to a different man with the same face. Or _about_ different men, with the same face.

Bail would be kind, but Bail was still young enough that the idea of being outgrown by a successor would be outside even his considerable good sense.

Ben mulls over his options, pleasantly relieved to discover he _has_ options; Mace he could speak almost freely with, given what the other man knew, but Mace was never able to take anything Ben told him in complete confidence – the young councilor was always and ever a Councilor, and never just a friend, especially when it came to Ben. Shaak Ti would never have his self-worth issues, though he does not doubt her advice would be considerate and wise.

Ben keys his comm, consigns himself, and calls Qui-Gon, the novelty of having his master on hand to offer advice not lost on him.

“ _Master Jinn’s comm-link, Padawan Jeisel speaking_.” Comes a slightly blurry answer.

Ben closes his eyes and lets out a disgruntled sigh. “Sian, is your master about?” _And does he ever carry his own comm while in temple_? Ben remembers him being absentminded whenever they were on Coruscant, but not that _this_ degree, like Qui-Gon was trying to make a point of it.

“ _Er….Master Ben?”_ She says hesitantly. _“Master Ben…it’s the middle of the night-cycle_.”

“Ah…my apologies.” Ben mutters. “I didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

“ _Are you alright_?”

Ben pauses, considering.

“I’m… in a mood.” He confesses resignedly. “About Obi-Wan.”

“ _Oh_.” She replies, surprised and more alert. Shuffling and creating static over the comm as she moves. “ _What’s he done_?”

Ben chuffs out a laugh that has very little humor in it at all, and an intolerable amount of self-pity. “Everything right.”

Sian is quiet a moment, and Ben scolds himself for offloading on a teenager, no matter how sympathetic. Worse, for _whining_.

He’s just about to apologize when she speaks up.

“ _Well_ ,” She says thoughtfully. “ _He’s sixteen, and a boy. Give him time_.” She suggests, and Ben can hear the tease of a grin in her voice, which just snags and attempts to draw out his own, no matter how reluctant. “ _I can even sabotage him some, if it’ll make you feel better_.”

Ben chuffs, shaking his head. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He drawls.

“ _If you say so_.” She replies, and falls quiet another moment. “ _Can I say something_?”

“Always.” Ben replies, then cautions himself. “Within reason.” He amends. Padawan Jeisel has developed her own reputation, after all.

“ _I think, coming from the least reasonable Jedi Master in the galaxy, that’s an unfair stipulation, Master Ben. But I’ll attempt to comply_.” She really did have a way with words. She takes an audible breath. “ _Obi-Wan’s successes are not markers of your failures._ ”

Ben balks, but she keeps going.

“ _You and he were given different choices, and guided through them by different Masters. He is who he is now because he has a_ good _teacher, Master Ben_. _N-not that Master Qui-Gon is a bad one – he just…needs work_.” She grumbles the last moodily.

Even still, Ben swallows. “Thank you.” He murmurs.

She takes a nervous breath and lets out a shaky sigh. “ _I’ve been thinking about it. What it must be like, to walk backwards into your own life. To know every choice I’d ever make, to know which ones I’d make differently, and then to watch myself have different choices altogether_.”

“And what do you think?” He asks, genuinely curious.

“ _I think it would fill my life with doubt. I think I’d save myself a lot of hurt by just…making a different life and avoiding my old one. Do you ever consider just walking away? Avoiding the choices altogether_?”

“I did that once.” Ben replies painfully. “And it was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Another pause, full of consideration, trying to find just the right thing to say – and Sian Jeisel was very good at that, which he appreciated.

“ _Would Obi-Wan do that_?”

Ben closes his eyes, the memory rising unbidden; the black scree, the searing lava, the driving cold even when his skin was scalding, and-

And the choice he couldn’t make, to kill Anakin or to save him.

 _Would Obi-Wan walk away_?

Dread and victory; painful, bitter _relief_.

“No.”

He does not know which choice Obi-Wan would make, if it all comes to naught, and he’s faced with the same impossible decision, but he does know that Obi-Wan would _choose_.

 _He’d save him_. Ben hopes, all his wishes and dreams hanging upon that singular desire. That Obi-Wan Kenobi, _this_ Obi-Wan Kenobi, can do what Ben himself had failed to do, and save Anakin Skywalker.

“ _Then you should be proud of yourself, Master Ben. Take away time travel and all the insanity that is your life and you’ve done what teachers are meant to do – sad as the task may be – you raised a student who is less worse than you_.”

Ben sputters. “Less worse?”

“ _I said what I said_.” She replies succinctly. “ _He’s hardly_ perfect. _I mean, he’s one of my best friends, so I can tell you honestly, really, you still have some work to do_.”

Ben snorts out a chuckle, shakes his head, and finds the laugh burrowing in his chest, growing deeper. “I see how it is. I confide in you all my doubts and you simply slander my teaching skills.”

“ _I have it under good authority that that is what sister padawans are for, Master Ben_.” Sian replies mischieviously. “ _I am just fulfilling my assigned duties_.”

Sister-Padawan. Ben lets his chuckles fade out, feeling much less burdened, and sighs softly. _I’ve had brothers aplenty_ , he thinks, _but not sisters before_. _And a little sister at that_.

“Well, you do it well, and I can hardly fault you for that.” Ben replies, grateful to her. “Thank you, Sian. I think…I think I’m feeling quite a bit less sorry for myself. So good night.” He adds pointedly, having kept her from her rest long enough.

“ _You’re welcome, Master Ben.”_ She replies with all the brightness of youth _. “Jeisel out_.”

Ben rests his chin in one palm, considering the comm, and smiles faintly.

He goes in search of his padawan, and finds him guiding Feral through basic lightsaber defenses.

With _Obi-Wan’s_ lightsaber.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, if he drops that someone is going to lose a hand!” Ben scolds, surprised the younger boy was able to hold it at all, given the crystals temperament.

“Well maybe don’t startle us and he won’t!” Obi-Wan retorts sharply, lurching to make the boy halt with the Force to avoid exactly that outcome. “Honestly, Master!”

“Padawan.” Ben reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Age appropriate learning tools_.”

“Am I in trouble?” Feral asks tremulously.

“ _No_.” They both snap, turning on each other with identical narrowed gazes and crossed arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: holy kriff this one was so _long_. When I update and it bounces me back to the first chapter I always get confused like what? That was in the same fic?  
> Not sure this arc turned out how I wanted it too but... I feel like its time to move forward.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Truth... Or Not](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010083) by [SilverTonguedSlytherin1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverTonguedSlytherin1/pseuds/SilverTonguedSlytherin1)




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